


The Lonely

by Colorado



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2492825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colorado/pseuds/Colorado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' return three years after Reichenbach isn't without danger for him or for Molly as he tries to take out the last person in Moriarty's network. This story, based on the wonderful Christina Perri song "The Lonely" and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Empty House," started as a one shot, changes voices/perspective, and hooked me on writing Sherlolly. Set between seasons 1 and 2 of BBC Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimers:_ **

  *       **_I don’t own these characters and I am not making any money (believe me)._**
  *       **_No copyright infringement is intended._**
  *       **_The song lyrics to “The Lonely” belong to Christina Perri._**



~s~s~s~s~s~

In the span of only two days, every aspect of my life changed because of Sherlock Holmes. Of course, two days really is a long period of time. I’ve seen entire families ravaged in the blink of an eye after learning a loved one has passed. And I experienced that myself to a degree when my dad died after a brave battle with cancer, even though I had months to prepare for it.

But those two days were as remarkable as they were devastating.

_“I think I am going to die.”_

_“What do you need?”_

When Sherlock said he thought he was going to die, something surged within me—a combination of fear, horror, and a fierce protectiveness over this man. Without question, I would do whatever it took to keep him safe. He went on to explain how I would play a key role in faking his suicide and thus saving his and three other people’s lives. And so I helped him arrange his “death.”

His plan was brilliant, of course. I carried out my part without a hitch. Thank God. Two nights later we met outside an agreed-upon pub that was popular with the uni crowd. I didn’t even recognize him even though I was intently looking at every man on the street.

It was strange to see him in the blue jacket that every third guy I passed on the way to work seemed to have on. There was nothing smart about it, nothing to betray his impeccable style. He looked like any ordinary bloke, especially since he had also donned faded blue jeans and pulled a black knit cap over his distinctive dark curls. Nothing about his appearance said Sherlock Homes. He even was slouched over and rounding his shoulders to take an inch or two off his height.

“Isn’t being out in the open too risky?” I asked, furtively looking over my shoulder.

“People, I have found, don’t observe what is right in front of them,” he said with a sardonic smile.

“Do you need anything before you go?” I asked, knowing he would head out across the continent in the morning.

He shook his head and pulled up his hood. “Mycroft has given me money. And, of course, a new passport.”

I knew Sherlock had planned to confide in his older brother, but I didn’t know when or how he had actually managed that, and I knew better than to ask.

“You must go to the funeral and act appropriately,” he instructed me.

“Right.”

“No one must suspect that your grief isn’t real,” he emphasized.

“And… after that?” I asked hesitantly. “What do I do after that?”

The question seemed to perplex him. “Go about your normal life,” he said simply with a shrug.

_Normal life?_ I wanted to shout at him or at least give him a good pounding. Didn’t he realize I had violated several laws and put my career and reputation in jeopardy to help him? Didn’t he know how shaken up I was having had to lie to his best friend, John Watson, and witness the poor man’s unspeakable grief? Couldn’t he _observe_ that my heart was breaking at the thought of his leaving, perhaps forever?

But Sherlock Holmes doesn’t _do_ feelings, so I kept silent.

Even I could deduce that he was anxious to be on his way, but the incredible tightness in my chest kept me dragging out the conversation. “Will you…stay in touch? Send a text now and then to say how you are getting on?”

“That would be inadvisable,” he said abruptly.

“So…this is good-bye,” I stated but it came out sounding more like a question.

“Yes. I cannot return until Moriarty’s gang is arrested and Watson, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson are safe.” He paused to pull a cigarette out of his pocket casually and light it. The glow illuminated his icy blue eyes for just a moment. He took a long drag then spoke again in his crisp public voice. “I know I can trust you to never say a word to anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” The threat of tears made my voice strange and thick.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper. You saved all of us.”

A warm flush blossomed across my cheeks. “You came up with the plan.”

“But there would have been no plan if it weren’t for you.” His voice was warm, almost tender. But maybe that was hopeful thinking on my part.

I continued to stare at this man whom I had hopelessly admired from afar these past few years. I wanted to burn this final image of him into my memory. His patrician nose was in profile to me, his angular cheekbones sharp, his alabaster skin unusually smooth and white.

He was leaving; it was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I stared down at my hands. “Sherlock, listen, I’ve wanted to tell you for some time now…”

But when I looked up, he was gone, blending into the nameless crowd milling outside the pubs that littered this block of London.

~s~s~s~s~s~

I went to the funeral, which was a dismal affair on a drizzly day. He needn’t have worried about me expressing appropriate grief, because as I stood at the graveside, the stress and emotions of the week caught up with me at last and I sobbed the entire time. I gripped John’s hand tightly and he tried to murmur some words of comfort in the midst of his own personal hell. I only cried harder. The guilt I felt over knowing I had the power to ease his pain was nearly drowning me.

At the end of the service, I saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the distance, his trademark umbrella actually open to the elements. He was the only other person in the entire world who knew this was all an act. I wanted to catch his eye, not to share a conspiratorial wink but just to not feel so alone. But as he surveyed the few people who had shown up, his glance drifted over me as if he didn’t even know who I was.

And that was it. Sherlock was gone, and wreckage was left in his wake.

~s~s~s~s~s~

_Three Years Later_  

I pulled out my cell phone to check the time. It was 2 a.m. At this hour, most people are home in bed, lights out, safe and sound. They aren’t walking the streets like a crazy woman who doesn’t want to go home. They live their lives, raise their kids, and love their families. They aren’t purposefully staying late at work or picking up extra shifts so they don’t have to face their empty flats. 

Tonight was worse than the many times before I had walked late into the night. Hours earlier, as I was finishing up some paperwork in the lab, I indulged in a daydream in which Sherlock burst into the lab just like he used to, his long coat floating behind him like a dark cape. I didn’t usually sit around all moony, though Sherlock was always on my mind. But something felt different about today. At that very moment a soft, very masculine voice had said my name. “Molly?”

John Watson stood behind me. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year and never in the lab without Sherlock. He looked essentially the same, perhaps a tad gray at the temples.

“John!” I cried and gave him an awkward hug. “What are you doing here?” 

“Greg Lestrade asked me to meet him. Thought I’d pop by to say hello.”

“DI Lestrade?” I felt fingers of apprehension walk up my spine. “What for?”

“A murder, actually. Ronald Adair.”

Relieved, I got up and thumbed quickly through my paperwork until I located the correct file. “Here it is. I’m waiting on a tox screen still, but the ballistics report shows it was a soft-nosed bullet. Those are horrible things. But why are you…?”

John nodded. “It’s odd, I know, but I’ve been following the crime news. And I’ve been studying unusual weapons over the last couple of years. Greg thought I might have some thoughts on this murder. 

“Crime and unusual weapons? Really?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I guess certain aspects of Sherlock rubbed off on me.” 

I froze. How easily the name had rolled off his tongue. There was no hesitation, no overwhelming pain that had devastated him the first year after his best friend’s “death.” What I now saw in John’s face was the acceptance that comes when someone has moved on with his life. I felt happy for him and jealous of him at the same time.

“So, how have you been?” John asked, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

“You know, same as always.” I awkwardly turned the topic to him. “And you? How have you been?”

“I have my practice at the clinic with Sarah still. It’s going well.” He offered me a genuine smile. “We moved in together after… Anyway, it’s all pretty good.”

“That’s great. Really great,” I said, my fingers drumming a nervous pattern on the countertop. “And Mrs. Hudson? Do you keep in touch?” 

“She’s well. She’s been travelling quite a bit.”

“I’ve been meaning to call her…” My voice trailed off.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” he said kindly.

“Make yourself at home.” I tried to laugh nonchalantly but it came out high pitched and shrill. I gestured for him to have a seat on a stool, then I realized it was the same stool Sherlock had perched on many times. “Pardon me, I need to...to go check on something.”

Shutting the door behind me, I leaned against it and shut my eyes.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Now as I walked heavy-footed to my flat in the wee hours of the night, I realize I am afraid to go inside. Oh, I don’t fear there will be an intruder waiting. All hints of danger and adventure in my life disappeared with the world’s only consulting detective. No, my fear is something much more pedestrian: I’m afraid of the loneliness that has come to define my life.

All of Sherlock’s friends have gone on with their lives.

Everyone but me. Because I know the truth. 

_Sherlock Holmes isn’t dead._  

It’s my wonderful secret to know he is out there somewhere, alive. It’s also my burden to bear and keep hidden from the world.

_Aren’t we morose tonight?_ I shake my head. _Listening to too much Evanescence apparently._

With a sigh, I unlock the door and step inside. I flick on the lights, unceremoniously drop my bag on the floor, and then jump backwards with a shriek. 

“Hello Molly Hooper.”


	2. Chapter 2

Let me start by saying I’m not a woman who is prone to fainting when surprised or upset. If I startled easily, I couldn’t be in my line of work and wouldn’t hold the record for the most autopsies completed in one day (yes, we keep track of that kind of thing down in the morgue). Once when I was eight years old, I had a tib-fib fracture after falling out of a tree. The pain was so intense, everything felt hazy, but I never lost consciousness. 

That’s why it was a totally new sensation when a gray mist floated across my line of sight as I stared blankly at Sherlock Holmes. After a three-year absence from my life, he was now sitting stiffly on my oak rocking chair dressed in casual clothing with an enigmatic grin on his face. As my brain struggled to process this information, my legs suddenly became boneless. I hit the floor hard.

He told me later that I was only out for a few seconds.

The first thing I noticed as I came to was that my institutional beige carpeting needed a good Hoovering. I rolled over onto my back with a moan and saw Sherlock’s concerned face looking down at me.

“You’re here,” I stated as I tried to push myself up onto my elbows.

Kneeling, he pulled me up against him until my back rested against his chest. “Not too fast. You’ve hit your head. I apologize, Molly Hooper. I had no idea that you would react this way to seeing me again. I was unnecessarily dramatic.”

I couldn’t argue with him on that point, so I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensations of feeling his heart beating and smelling his clean scent.

“Do you feel like you can stand yet?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied sheepishly. After he helped me to my feet and over to the couch, I slumped back against the floral cushions. He stood before me surveying me as intently as I was looking at him.

His rich, dark curls were shorter now, swept to one side, and had a blonde tint. He also looked thinner. He must have come from a warm climate because he wore a white polo shirt, which did nothing for his already pale complexion, and khaki cargo shorts. I did a double take when I realized I could see his bare feet through the straps of his brown walking sandals. It was unnatural and, well, _wrong_ to see Sherlock Holmes’ bare feet.

“You’re not a ghost, at least,” I murmured, smiling involuntarily.

Sherlock lifted his brows and gave me a quick smile. “I am glad to see you, too. Your hair is two inches longer and you have recently had a cold.”

Oh, how I had missed his deductions.

“When did you…? Are you…? Have…?” As I tried to decide what my first question should be, I lapsed into my old habit of being tongue-tied around him.

He held up his hand to silence me. “Are you really fit to discuss this? Perhaps I should wait until another time to tell you...”

“No, you don’t!” I exclaimed. “I want to know now!”

“Molly, you hit your head quite hard,” he said sternly.

“Tell me at least this: Are you back?”

Sherlock resumed his seat on the rocking chair with a sigh. “No.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Sadness was written across his lean face along with intense weariness. “Would you like some tea, Sherlock?” I asked. “Something to eat?”

He suddenly brightened. “I haven’t been called by my given name in a long time. Yes, Molly, I would like a cuppa. And some beans and toast, if you have them.”

“I do.” I didn’t feel any ill effects from fainting as I slid off the couch and went into make two cups. In fact, I felt strangely energized for this late hour. As I prepared this simple meal, Sherlock moved to one of the stools at the counter and began to tell me his story.

“Mycroft reasoned that since I was living off his Euro, I could do some work for him. As a researcher. We both agreed that my unique deductive abilities would be too easily recognizable if I were to engage in solving actual cases. My skills are simply too singular,” he said with no modesty whatsoever.

I coughed slightly to disguise my smile. “That was a good idea.”

“After I left England, I went first to Florence. I needed to get properly organized to begin determining who was watching Watson, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty had structured his organization in such a way that there were only two people who knew the inner workings and all the people: himself and a former army colonel named Sebastian Moran. They had underlings with whom they communicated, but those thugs never knew their bosses’ names or one another. That way, if one were to be arrested, he could not inform on the others. I soon was able to crack their system and learned the assassins’ identities. Then it became a waiting game to trip them up. I have to say, it sorely tested my patience.

“The first man, Maclin, did the world a favor and died of a heart attack four months after my ‘death.’ So Lestrade was safe. Then, last year, when Mrs. Hudson was taking a leisurely cruise down the Rhein, I arranged to have her gunman, an unsavory character named Peters, tempted to make a quick profit by doing work for a drug lord. He agreed. A few well-placed calls later, made on a disposable cell phone of course, and Peters is in a Turkish prison for the rest of his life.

“That left only one killer, and he was the most dangerous of the three: It was Moran himself. He is a die-hard fanatic, someone who will never give up,” Sherlock explained. “He is nearly as observant and nearly as intelligent as Moriarty was.”

“Is he a psychopath as well?” I asked with a hint of bitterness, remembering my time with “Jim from IT.” Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

“No, he is simply evil, the causes of which more than likely stem back into his lineage,” Sherlock said. “Ah, thank you very much.”

I placed his tea and toast in front of him, and he ate rapidly.

“Moran is still on John’s trail,” he continued. “But I knew, like all criminals, he would eventually make a mistake that would lead to his downfall. All I had to do was be patient and keep watching the criminal news. So, I decided to engage my mind in some academic research. I spent some time in Tibet and Nepal.”

“Don’t tell me you climbed Everest,” I teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, but I did visit base camp. It is my considered opinion, by the way, that Mallory and Irvine did not successfully summit in 1924.”

“Good to know.”

“After that I spent a while in Norway working on some very interesting artifacts. I will tell you more about them another time, Molly, because I know you will find them equally as fascinating. I even published two academic papers on them under the name Sigerson. But then Mycroft sent me to Iran to take stock on what that madman leader is doing.” His face looked even more white and pinched. “Then he sent me on a fact-finding trip to the Sudan. That is a terrible situation there, and I made a full report on it.

“After that I went to Saudi Arabia and then to America. This past month I was in the French West Indies, Martinique to be precise, when I received word of this remarkable murder and quickly booked transport home.” Sherlock’s ice blue eyes glittered. “I knew I had Moran at last.”

“What murder?” I asked, perplexed.

“The murder of Ronald Adair, of course.”

“Ron...Ronald Adair? The young man shot in the head?” Sherlock nodded as I gaped at him. “The same young man whose body John and Greg came to see?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said dangerously. “The murder of Ronald Adair is the key to my return.”


	3. Chapter 3

When I was a little girl, I received a small stuffed bear from a distant relative for my birthday one year. It wore a garish Harlequin costume, half of the outfit green, red, and yellow diamonds while the other side was blue, white, and purple. He even had on a little matching hat with a bell on top. My dad used to say I was like Harley because I had two distinct and very different sides to my personality. 

I was born with a fascination of how things in the natural world worked and why. Dad also loved science, so he bought me my very first microscope. I could—and did—spend hours looking at the artwork that can be found in a blade of grass and the amazing life forms that live in droplets of water.

The other side of me, which mum says I got from her, is sentimental, emotional, and empathetic. During the same years I spent hovering over my microscope, I also brought home stray cats with alarming frequency. I loved to press flowers in books, cried during Disney movies, and dotted my I’s with little hearts. I devoured novels by Jane Austen and fell head-over-heels in love with movie stars.

But it was in Sherlock Holmes that my dichotomous personality found a perfect storm.

When I met him for the first time, his effect on me was immediate and dramatic. I never had felt that way about a man, and I doubt I ever will again. His brilliance was obvious. I could sit and listen to his amazing deductions for hours. But he also had a quality that let me know he needed care and love. And it didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous as all get out. One small look from him, and my mind would forget it could actually process words and think coherent thoughts.

Tonight, however, I felt differently as I watched Sherlock pace my small flat. Maybe it was because I was his only friend in the world, but at that moment I realized he needed me to be strong in the same way he did three years ago. I couldn’t just melt into a simpering schoolgirl.

Rubbing my brow, I tried to make sense of what he had just told me. “Ron Adair’s murder is the key to your returning to your life? Why? And how does it connect to Sebastian Moran?”

I blushed as Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and gave me his trademark dubious look. “Isn’t it obvious? Moran killed Adair.”

“What?” I leaned forward. “Why would a criminal in Moriarty’s network shoot a university student?”

“I’m not sure of the _why_ yet, though I do have a few theories. What’s more important is that I know _how_ the murder was committed.” Sherlock stopped pacing and threw himself onto my sofa. “That will be Moran’s undoing. But I have to prove it.”

I stood nearby, noticing that his unruly blondish curls tumbled onto his forehead. “Can’t Mycroft help?”

Sherlock snorted in contempt. “He doesn’t even know I’m in London. And even though his position in the government allows him certain _privileges_ , we still need evidence to convict Moran and remove the threat from John.”

“OK.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

He closed his eyes, and I thought he might have drifted off, but then he spoke again. “You said John and Lestrade were in to see the body. What did they say?”

“I wasn’t in the room the whole time,” I admitted as he grunted in disappointment. “I had a phone call. But I did hear John say it was unusual that a soft-nosed bullet could come from a revolver with that kind of velocity.”

Sherlock nodded. “He’s right. It’s more likely to have been fired from a rifle. But that is highly unlikely given the facts I read online.”

Swinging himself into a sitting position, he steepled his fingers, deep in thought. “I must see the crime scene for myself. We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You want to go now?” I looked at him through bleary and bloodshot eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No,” he said simply. “What does it matter?”

“It’s late. Or very early, depending on your point of view,” I said.

“If you had come home directly after your shift ended, we could have completed this earlier,” he said snidely, raising my temper.

“How do you know when...? Oh never mind. I have tomorrow...today...off. But right now I am going to bed.” I walked over to the cupboard and took out an extra blanket and pillow. “Before you head out, you should change your clothes. That outfit doesn’t really scream ‘London,’ yeah? But why not get some sleep first? I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to my couch.”

Sherlock stood silently for a moment. “To catch Moran, I must be exact. And since he does not know I am alive, time is on my side. Resting will not hurt my plan,” he relented

My mouth fell open at his agreeability, and I was treated to a genuine smile as he took the bedding from my arms. “I have not changed much in these three years, except for my patience. It has increased. Slightly.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” I said over my shoulder as I headed into the bathroom.

His voice was already heavy with sleep as he called out, “Good night, Molly Hooper.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

Later that same morning, but at least at a decent hour, I lay in bed watching the sunlight cast odd patterns across my bedspread. Sherlock Holmes was in my kitchen. I could hear him fiddling with the coffeemaker. I threw back the covers with a smile.

“Make me a cup too?” I asked then gasped at the sight of an old man standing at my kitchen sink, his grizzled white hair sticking out from under a faded Manchester United cap.

“I already poured you one,” the man answered with Sherlock’s voice.

“You scared the life out of me!” I exclaimed, clutching my dressing gown together.

Sherlock turned and spread out his arms so I could get the full impact of his disguise. His old man, whom I later dubbed “Lionel,” wore a white jacket zipped up to the chin and brown corduroy pants. Sherlock had added a prosthetic nose and heavy horn rim glasses.

“My apologies. Over the last three years, I have perfected my ability to create disguises. I have found that most people tend to overlook the elderly.”

Picking up my cup, I noticed Sherlock had my laptop open on the counter.

“Have you discovered anything new?” I gestured to the document open on the screen.

“The police report says...” he began.

“You have the police report? Well, of course you have the police report,” I muttered.

“The police report says,” he began again, “that Adair was 23 years old, a middle child, living in London with his parents. Well-mannered, smart, studying economics. By all accounts he was very popular with girls and his mates.

“He had one vice: He liked to play poker, but even with that, he was even-tempered. He never played high-stakes games. On the night of his death, a few hours before he was shot to death, he had lost a game to . . .”

“Not Sebastian Moran?” I gasped.

Sherlock nodded. “Just so. Moran fancies himself to be a card shark. The fact that he was playing cards with Ronald Adair the same night the boy is murdered leads me to believe Moran is the killer.”

I took a long sip of coffee. It was very strong. “So we need to go to the Adairs’ home?”

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Instead of answering, I gestured to my light blue pajamas. “Why don’t you make us a small fry up while I’m changing?”

Seeing the baffled look on the detective’s face, I giggled. “It was a joke, Sherlock. I’ll be ready in a jiff.”

~s~s~s~s~s~

“Lionel” and I arrived at the Adairs’ Park Lane residence by cab. Getting out, I quickly noticed the second-floor window on the left had a piece of plywood over it. Sherlock paid the driver and joined me at the gate.

“Are we going up to the door?” I asked.

“No need. I now know everything I need to know,” he said, pulling down on the brim of his cap.

“Already?”

“See the boarded-up window? That is Adair’s bedroom. He was shot through the open window. There isn’t a drainpipe or a balcony or any apparatus by which a killer could have climbed up to that height. Therefore, his killer remained outside the home.”

“But the trajectory of the shot from down here is all wrong,” I interjected.

“Precisely.” Sherlock whirled around to face the house on the opposite side of the street. “Moran shot him from the roof of that house. He was able to get up without being seen, probably by the patio roof in the back. There is a ‘To Let’ sign in the window. No one lives there.”

“It all looks pretty obvious,” I said. “So why did Lestrade need to talk to John?”

“Because no one heard the shot. You yourself put the time of death at approximately 10 o’clock. This is a pretty busy neighborhood, people coming and going. How did no one hear a shot?”

“A silencer of some sort?” I suggested, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

Sherlock put his hands in his coat pocket. “Very good, Molly. But wrong. I know what kind of weapon would fire a soft-nose bullet and not make a sound.”

“Is this what you do with John? When you are investigating a case?” I tentatively asked.

“I like to think out loud,” Sherlock said. “John’s observations, while also usually wrong, often help trigger an idea.”

We began walking down the block as the sun ducked behind a bank of dark clouds.

“Why can’t we lay all of these facts out for Lestrade?” I asked. “He’s safe now. He can protect John until Moran is arrested.”

“No, no, no! I can’t risk John’s life. I won’t,” Sherlock said emphatically. “The only way to keep him alive is to put Moran behind bars, and to do that I must have irrefutable proof that he killed Adair. I must get that gun.”

“All right, how?”

He remained perfectly still as he spoke rapid fire. “By setting up a situation that will lure him out. If he knows I am alive, he will try to kill me to avenge Moriarty. And he would use his favorite weapon. Of that I have no doubt. And that’s when I would catch him. It’s a simple strategy, actually.”

“So, you are going to die...again?”

“No.” He paused. “But Moran will think I did.”

“And you need my help...again?”

He stood close to me and looked deeply into my eyes. “Yes. But I have to be honest. What we need to do will be dangerous. But it is necessary for this whole nightmare to finally be over. Then I can come home.”

The way he said the word _home_ took my breath away. Whether he would ever admit it or not, I knew in my heart that over these past three years, Sherlock had been as lonely as I.

Swallowing hard, I met his eyes evenly. “Tell me what you need me to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock didn’t reveal his plan to me that day or the next. When I asked about it, he said dramatically that all would be revealed in good time. The only thing he wanted me to do was ring Mrs. Hudson and find out when she would be out of town next. I was able to catch her just as she was leaving for a week in the Lake District.

“I’ve a gentleman friend now,” she admitted with a giggle. “Nothing serious, we have fun together. It’s rather nice to have someone show you a good time.”

Grinning ear to ear, I said, “No one deserves that more than you, Mrs. Hudson. When you come back, let’s have tea.”

“That would be lovely, Molly.”

Sherlock had an excited gleam in his eye when I told him Mrs. Hudson would be away starting that afternoon. I wanted to know what he had up his sleeve, but I bit my tongue and dropped the subject, which was hard to do because I was very curious, especially since he was leaving the flat in different disguises. There was Colin the commodities trader with the yellow bow tie and Jeremy the hipster in a black beret. And, of course, Lionel.

For the most part, he beat me home in the evening. I typically got a curry takeaway, which Sherlock favored. After we ate, he would sit on the couch, working on my laptop, while I watched a movie or read a book. Occasionally he would look up from his work to tell me what was fundamentally wrong with the plot of the TV show I was enjoying or explaining a facet of some area of research he knew I was interested in. One evening he presented me with his scholarly research papers on the Norwegian artifacts. He was right: I did find them fascinating. At bedtime, I went to my bedroom, and he slept on the couch.

I would be lying if I said I never had the fleeting fantasy that we were a real couple, sharing our lives together. How could I not? Sitting that close to him, talking with him, sharing a laugh or two. After I turned in, I would picture for the millionth time what it would be like to kiss him.

It was a comfortable, happy week.

But seven days after we had visited the crime scene, Sherlock Holmes stood waiting for me in my flat dressed as, well, Sherlock Holmes. He wore a white button-up, a well-cut suit, and a purple muffler. And somehow he had retrieved his wonderful black coat. His hair was back to its natural color, which contrasted sharply with his blue eyes and pale skin.

“It’s time to spring our trap,” he announced with anticipation.

“Right now? All right, I’ll go change,” I said, heading to the bedroom.

“Why must you always be changing your clothes?” he demanded.

I slipped off my brown slacks and pink blouse and quickly pulled on jeans and a blue tank. Slipping on a red jumper, I quickly pulled my long brown hair into a ponytail and was back in the living room in less than five minutes.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” I said as we left the flat.

We travelled by cab to 221 Baker Street. When I recognized where we were, I grasped his arm.

“You’ll see,” he said confidently.

We walked up the steps and Sherlock opened the door with his key. “Mycroft has maintained my rooms,” he told me. “Come in and see if I have surprised you.”

I had only been in his flat once before, but it looked much like I remembered. In the dim light, I could see stacks of books and papers to one side. It resembled a museum exhibit that someone had forgotten about.

I looked in the bare kitchen, then turned to my right. Silhouetted in front of a white panel curtain on the far window was a bust of Sherlock Holmes. It sat on several books that were stacked on a wrought iron plant stand. It “wore” one of Sherlock’s old suit coats, by way of a carefully rigged hangar, and a dark wig.

“That’s amazing!” I exclaimed walking over to it.

“It is rather like me,” he said with pride. “A French art student named Oscar made it this week. It’s amazing how fast a person can create something when he is offered a great deal of cash. Still, it took him six days to make.”

I ran my finger down the bust’s nose. “It looks just like you.”

“I added the other touches,” he explained, adjusting the lapels. “Oscar had no idea who I was,” he added sullenly.

“When were you over here to set this up”

“Earlier today.”

“Are you going to tell me your plan now?” I asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock walked over to the mantel and picked up the skull. “When it is completely dark, I will send a text to Moran announcing my desire to meet with him here. I will also send him a picture of myself with today’s paper to convince him I am real.”

“What if he doesn’t come to meet you but instead goes after John?”

“I will text John saying he is needed to consult on a case at Queen Elizabeth Hospital. He will be in a taxi when Moran is on his way here to kill me.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked nervously.

“Every fifteen minutes, crawl to the dummy on your hands on knees, being careful not to be seen. Turn it in a small way so it would appear to an observer outside that I am moving.”

“Sherlock, would someone really believe you stand at your window for hours?”

He stared at me, confused. “But I really do that.”

“OK. And where will you be?”

“The house directly across the street is empty. I will be waiting there for Moran, who will undoubtedly use the second floor window much as he did the rooftop across from the Adair home. Moran will take a shot at the dummy. That is when I will catch him. No matter what happens, do not leave this room. Keep the door locked. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now we wait for the sun to set.” Sherlock sat in “his” chair, a smile ghosting across his face.

“What is it?” I asked, plumping the Union Jack pillow before sitting down.

“I am looking forward to tomorrow. John will be back sitting where you are. I will be on my way to restoring my reputation,” he answered. “Then we will return to investigating crimes. It will be like the old days."

“Not everything will be the same,” I cautioned him.

“What do you mean?” The room was dark with purple and grey shadows, and I couldn’t make out Sherlock’s expression.

“I mean, things have changed in three years. People have moved on. For instance, Greg Lestrade has reconciled with his wife, but Anderson is getting a divorce.”

“Good for Mrs. Anderson.”

“Mrs. Hudson has a boyfriend now, did you know that? She won’t be on call as much.”

“Mrs. Hudson will want to be here all the more when John moves back in.”

“Sherlock!” I said with an incredulous laugh. “John lives with Sarah now. He’s not going to leave her.”

“I’m sure John and Susan...”

“Sarah,” I corrected him.

He shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

“John loves her, so yes, it does matter,” I said crossly.

“Love.” Sherlock spat the word. He stood and walked over to the dummy. Even in the growing darkness, I could see him put his hands on his hips and shake his head. “He may think he loves her...”

“Why do you say _love_ like it’s a bad word?”

With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the topic. “You say people have moved on, but you have not,” he said. “You are exactly the same.”

He hadn’t said it to be cruel. He was just stating a fact. I was living the status quo life of a boring single woman who spent hours with the dead and who didn’t go on dates because she was in love with a man who was pretending to be dead.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, still stinging from his words. “I’ve kept your secret, but the truth is your secret has kept me. I couldn’t ‘move on’ when I knew you were alive.”

Sitting in almost darkness gave me a courage I wouldn’t have had in the daylight. Not only was our week together ending, our three-year secret was also ending. Tomorrow could be a new beginning. “Maybe when this is all over, I can start living again. Just like you.” I stood and looked out the other window. “Before you left three years ago, I tried to tell you how I felt. About you.”

Sherlock turned on a small table lamp by the bust so its silhouette would be apparent from the street. “Talk of feelings is useless and distracting.”

“No, it’s not,” I argued.

“Yes, it is, especially on a night such as this,” he insisted.

“Tonight is exactly the right time! If you didn’t love John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn’t have given up your life for them.”

“Loving someone gives that person an advantage over you!” he hissed. “These three years have proved caring is weakness. Moriarty drove that point home.”

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. “Then you must think very little of those of us who do care.”

He sighed heavily. “I think highly of you. When I said you counted that night in the lab, I also meant I knew I could count on you. You are efficient...”

“Efficient?” My voice went up an octave.

“Reliable, trustworthy....”

“At least I have the makings of a good collie,” I said softly.

“Molly!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “I have never claimed that love is my area. I don’t _love_ anyone. I can’t love anyone. And I don’t want to discuss my emotions. Ever.”

My cheeks burned hotly as I looked across the miles of welcome darkness that separated us. “I’ll always care for you, Sherlock, because that’s who I am. I’m not going to change. But after tonight I want you to stop using my feelings for you in order to have an advantage over _me_.” 

Sherlock walked briskly to the door. “I am sending the text. Lock the door behind me and remember your instructions.”

His swift footsteps echoed down the stairs and he slammed the front door.

~s~s~s~s~

I spent the next hour alternately on my knees making small movements to the Sherlock bust or sitting with my back to the wall, repeating our last conversation over and over in my head and beating myself up.

“Way to go, Molls,” I said harshly. “This is the most important night in his life and you want to talk about how you feel. Brilliant. Tomorrow everything is different. No more watching TV, getting takeaway, or investigating together. You will be Molly from the morgue. And Sherlock...will be who he is. He probably won’t even want to talk to you.”

And then Sherlock’s head exploded.


	5. Chapter 5

And then Sherlock’s head exploded. Or the bust of Sherlock exploded, I should say.

I screamed as the window shattered into shards of flying glass. The force of the shot propelled the bust backward, its beautiful profile now a large hole. Flattened against the floor, I waited for a few minutes that seemed to last hours. The silence was worse than anything I could imagine. Ignoring Sherlock’s instructions, I scrambled to my feet, tore open the door, and burst from 221 Baker Street in time to see two brawling men spill out from the empty house on the other side of the street.

One of them clearly was Sherlock. The other, Moran I presumed, was taller and heavier and had the detective in a headlock. Sherlock threw his elbow back into Moran’s midsection, causing the killer to gasp and flinch, but a second later Moran grabbed Sherlock’s distinctive purple muffler and began twisting it. Sherlock’s long fingers tried to pry the scarf away from his neck, but he fell to his knees. He was choking to death.

My eyes darted around for something to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I launched myself across the road and jumped on Moran’s back in a strange parody of a piggyback ride. As I pounded his head and shoulders, he tried to fling me aside, so I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck and pulled back. Fleetingly I wondered if this was what a bull rider went through. Letting go of Sherlock’s scarf, Moran reached up for my arms and yanked me off of him like a ragdoll. And to make sure I stayed off, he punched me. I spun around and fell to the sidewalk.

My fight with Moran gave Sherlock the time he needed to leap up. As I now lay on my side with blood streaming from a split lip, our eyes locked for a brief moment. With a guttural yell, Sherlock lunged at Moran and barreled the larger man to the ground.

And that’s when the melee really started.

Sherlock pummeled Moran like one possessed, fists flying as he pinned the killer with a knee to the chest. Moran fought liked a caged tiger, savagely throwing punches. Just then three other men rushed up—was one Lestrade?—and tried to separate the pair. Putting a hand to my mouth, I got to my feet and watched as two policemen struggled to pull a snarling Moran up. It was Lestrade who finally grabbed Sherlock, rumpled and sweating. Greg stared in shock when he realized whom he was holding.

“You bloody git!” he shouted and wrapped Sherlock in a bear hug. Sherlock stiffly stepped back, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“When I got your text, I didn’t believe it was really you,” Lestrade said with a laugh. “But then you sent that photo with you and today’s paper.”

“A clue even you couldn’t miss.”

Lestrade ignored his gibe. “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“You’ve met Col. Sebastian Moran before.” Sherlock gestured to the still-struggling criminal. “But what you didn’t know is that he killed Ronald Adair.”

I quietly skirted around the group, but Lestrade saw me.

“You brought Molly Hooper into this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Blushing, I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue but only felt my mobile. A flash of an idea came to mind.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over me briefly to make sure I was all right before continuing. “Upstairs in this empty house you will find in the smaller bedroom a unique air gun that fires soft-nosed bullets. Moran used it to kill Adair from the roof of the house across from the Adair home. Just now he used it to shoot what he thought was me but was actually a wax bust in the window of 221B.”

“An air gun,” Lestrade echoed.

“That in itself is genius,” Sherlock said. “Who would expect that type of bullet from an air gun, which is quiet and very powerful? My investigation has turned up proof that it was made in Germany for Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” Lestrade scrubbed his hand over his face. “About that...”

Sherlock answered quickly, “Everything will be sorted in due time. But it’s vital that you get that gun and arrest this man for murder. Ballistics will bear me out.”

Moran spoke for the first time. “Murder, you say? Why would I murder Ron? I had only met him a few times to play cards, and I won each time!”

Sherlock took a step toward the man. “Because you are an inherently dishonest person, you cheat at cards. Adair was bright. He must have found you out. Maybe threatened to expose you? Being fair and far too naïve, he probably offered you a chance to make the situation right. What did he promise? Did he give you until the morning to return your ill-gotten winnings? That would explain why you had to kill him that night.”

This silenced Moran. Lestrade’s men put cuffs on him. One led him away while Greg and the other officer entered the house.

A cool wind began to blow. Sherlock acknowledged me with a nod. “Are you injured?”

“I’ll be fine. And you?” I noticed a bruise already forming on his left cheek.

“My knowledge of boxing came in handy,” he replied. “I decided to have Lestrade on the scene if I somehow failed. I waited until Moran set up the air gun and fired before I sprang. We fought, then he ran downstairs. It was there that he was able to get the upper hand.”

“You did it, Sherlock.” It didn’t matter to me about our fight. All I felt at that moment was pride. “You saved them all.”

Relief seemed to course through his body as he exhaled. “You...did well.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a taxi pull up just as Lestrade came to the doorway to ask Sherlock more questions. “I’m going...I’ll be over here,” I said and walked down the sidewalk.

“Molly!” John Watson ran up and anxiously looked me over. “Are you all right? What happened to your lip?”

“I’m OK.” I took his hand in mine. “John, please know that I am so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not telling you until now that he’s alive.” I stepped out of the way so John could have a clear view of the empty house. There, standing in front of Lestrade was Sherlock Holmes, his collar turned up against the breeze. It was only John’s well-honed military discipline that kept the doctor from pitching over.

Sherlock spotted John. As his eyes widened and his mouth fell open, the emotionless mask slipped; he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t happy. Sherlock smiled. “Hello, Watson.”

John woodenly walked up to him, drew back his right fist, and hit Sherlock in the face.

Rubbing his jaw, Sherlock looked my direction. “Text?”

I waved my mobile at him. “Just me being sentimental.”

“What the bloody hell is this?” John yelled angrily. Sherlock remained frozen, only his blue eyes moving.

John looked over at me. “You knew this whole time?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

John whirled back to Sherlock and stood inches from the taller man.

“You are positively heartless!” John shouted. “How could you let me think you were dead? I watched you jump off St. Bart’s. I went to your funeral. How could you do this?”

“I had to,” Sherlock stated.

“You...you had to?” John’s hands rapidly clenched and unclenched. “You had bloody well come up with a better reason than that!”

“Moriarty had assassins following you, Mrs. Hudson, and you, too, Greg,” I cried. “They were going to kill you if Sherlock didn’t kill himself.”

“Is this true?” Lestrade asked.

“Not only was Moran the murderer of young Adair, he also was the killer assigned to John,” Sherlock said quietly. “Mrs. Hudson’s assassin is in a Turkish jail. The man following you, Lestrade, died of natural causes. Tonight my work is complete.”

John continued staring daggers at his best friend’s impassive face. “Do you even care what I’ve gone through over these past three years?” he asked hoarsely.

Attracted by the ongoing commotion, people began emerging from the woodwork and milling about on Baker Street.

“What’s all this?” A young woman with a shock of red hair approached me. “Hey, you’re bleeding!”

Taking the handkerchief she offered, I held it to my lip. “Thanks,” I said.

“Everyone, move back!” A policeman herded the group until they stood in front of the sub shop.

“It’s him!” a woman suddenly cried. “It’s Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock and John broke eye contact to look at the crowd.

“That fake? He’s dead,” the woman’s companion chided her.

“I know what I’m talking about, George! He used to live right here. That’s Sherlock Holmes!” she insisted. The crowd began buzzing with excitement.

The anger on John’s face faded, and he was breathing hard. With a sob, he roughly pulled his friend into an embrace. Sherlock returned the hug, hesitantly at first, then his shoulders slumped and he held on to John for dear life.

Grinning stupidly, I walked to 221 to get the purse I had left in Sherlock’s rooms. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, I turned to take one last look at the best friends, who now stood side by side, mirror images of one another, hands in pockets and heads purposefully turned in opposite directions.

“You stupid, arrogant prick,” John said.

“I missed you, too,” Sherlock deadpanned. But I could tell he was truly happy.

With tears of joy swimming in my eyes, I whispered, “He’s home at last.”

“So he is,” said a large man suddenly appearing next to me. Before I knew what was happening, his vise-like hand gripped my elbow.

“Hey!” I began angrily as he quickly dragged me away from the group. That’s when I saw the waiting white delivery van at the corner. The back door stood open.

“Sherlock!” I screamed frantically. The man wrapped his giant arm around my waist and lifted me as easily as a sack of grain.

Rough hands forced me into the back of the van, my kicking and hitting having no effect. I heard shouts and men running, but my abductor had climbed in and pulled the door shut. Twisting my arm behind me, he forced me facedown on floor. Tires squealed as an unknown driver pealed away from the curb.

Still struggling, I barely heard the man speak. “Sherlock Holmes has come home, has he? He’ll discover soon enough that Col. Moran isn’t a fool. Col. Moran learned everything from Mr. Moriarty. Lesson number one: You always think ahead. Lesson number two: You always have a backup plan.”

I felt his hot breath on my ear as a sharp needle was jabbed into my shoulder. “Lesson number three: You always have a second in command.”


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimers:_**  

1\. I’m going to refer to some directions and streets around Baker Street. Please know ahead of time they will not be true-to-life.

2\. Someday I will make the point of view consistent, but for now I’m switching from first person (Molly) to third person omniscient. That’s what happens when a one-shot takes on a life of its own!

3\. All credit to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the brilliant Moftiss.

4\. Chp. 1 is based on the song “The Lonely.” The rest is based on “The Adventure of the Empty House” by ACD. Treat yourself and go read it.

~s~s~s~s~

_The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout._

_Down came the rain, and washed the spider out._

_Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,_

_and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again._

 

“What is the point of this song?”

It’s his voice, always his voice.

“Why do we teach children that song— _complete with hand motions_?” he asks. “Is it to show them that no matter how hard they work in life, everything can be knocked away by a whim of nature?”

“No,” she answers. “It teaches them that in life you will have times that look bleak, but the sun always comes out in the end.”

He snorts in that derisive way of his. “So an arachnid chooses to go up a water spout, which is a dubious endeavor at best. What does it hope to gain? What will its reward be?”

“It gets to the top,” she replies. “It lives.”

“I think a song about a spider that struggles against overwhelming odds to go about his little tasks is hardly inspirational,” he declares.

“I don’t agree,” she says. “If the little spider can stay strong and not give up, there’s always hope.”

And in the utter blackness of wherever she was, Molly Hooper began to hum again.

~s~s~s~s~

_Two days earlier..._

“Sherlock!”

Molly’s desperate cry echoed in the night. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes simultaneously whirled around in time to see a giant of a man fling a kicking Molly over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Sherlock took off like a rocket, John at his heels. Running at a remarkable rate for a man of his girth, the man threw Molly roughly into the back of a waiting van. With a burst of speed, Sherlock was a hair’s breath from grabbing the closing door but was too late.

“Molly!” he shouted.

The vehicle was already speeding east, weaving in and out of traffic. Without missing a step, Sherlock rounded the corner, his long coat streaming behind him. Whipping out his mobile, Sherlock pushed a button.

“Mycroft! CCTV on Blandford from Baker Street south!” he shouted. “White van! Plate BD51SMR.”

John sprinted but couldn’t keep up with his friend. As the van approached the next cross street, the traffic light turned red. Ignoring it, the van accelerated through the intersection to the blare of horns. Oblivious to oncoming cars, Sherlock followed and ran blindly in front of a red Fiat. John lunged and yanked him to safety.

“Why? Why did you do that?” Sherlock’s blue eyes blazed.

“Why did I keep you from getting run over? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I didn’t want to go to another one of your funerals?”

“The van is gone!“ Sherlock shouted, his face a portrait of rage and despair. “The van is gone!”

A police car abruptly pulled up and Lestrade leapt out. “Molly?” he demanded.

“Abducted,” Sherlock said, glaring over at John.

“Who? Why?” Lestrade raked his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair.

Sherlock paced a section of the sidewalk while John leaned over his knees, panting.

“You OK?” Lestrade asked him.

Watson waved him off. “Haven’t done this in a while.”

“Oh!’ Sherlock exclaimed and froze in one spot. “Take me to Moran immediately!”

“Hold on!” Lestrade yelled. “You aren’t the authorities. You aren’t even officially alive.”

Sherlock rushed over to the police car. “My brother is gathering CCTV footage. I also gave him the plate number.”

“Give _me_ the plate number, you prat.”

“BD51SMR.”

“So tell me— _me,_ Sherlock—who you think would have the balls to kidnap Molly right under our noses?”

“I will, but let’s be on our way!”

As much as Sherlock hated riding in police cars, he didn’t hesitate to climb in as Lestrade directed the officer at the wheel to get to Scotland Yard fast.

Greg turned in his seat to face the detective. “Let’s have it.”

“It was only an hour between the time I texted Moran to meet me to when he appeared in the empty house. Not enough time to construct a plan worthy of Moriarty but plenty of time to get in touch with a confederate.”

“A confederate?” John repeated.

“I knew Moran was cunning. He must have pieced together that Molly helped me fake my suicide. He instructed his associate to kidnap her if his plan to assassinate me went awry. When you arrested Moran, this man was on the scene. He saw Molly and seized the opportunity.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I doubt whether Moran had time to come up with anything beyond that.”

“Then...what will this man do to her?” John asked haltingly. “Will there be a ransom demand?”

Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a quick look, then averted their eyes.

“Don’t forget there’s a third person involved, too,” Lestrade pointed out. “Someone had to be driving that van, yeah?”

Sherlock stared out his window pensively, the cold city lights blurring in a light rain. He didn’t speak again the entire ride.

~s~s~s~s~

As Sherlock and John strode through the empty squad room with Lestrade, Sherlock demanded to be allowed to interrogate Moran.

Lestrade tossed his coat over his desk chair. “No. The answer is no. But you can observe,” he relented. “I have a feeling you already know more about Moran than we have time to uncover. I’m having him brought up now.”

“Sir?” A pretty female officer John had never seen before stood in the doorway. “We found these at the scene.” She handed him two evidence bags, one containing a mobile and the other a sodden handkerchief discolored with blood. “The phone is Dr. Hooper’s.”

“Thank you.” Lestrade got his phone and quickly dialed. “Donovan? Yeah, need you to come in. Kidnapping. Molly Hooper. Yes, that Molly Hooper. I don’t have time to explain. Oh, and Donovan? There’s something...someone...oh, I’ll tell you when you get here.”

While Lestrade was on the phone, Sherlock stared intently at the handkerchief. He snatched the evidence bag on Lestrade’s desk, opened it, and examined the cloth. Ordinary, cheap cotton material. White with a lavender border. Wet and dirty from the rain. Streaked with blood. A faint perfume lingered on it.

“Molly must have held it to her lip,” John observed quietly.

“It isn’t hers. She doesn’t wear this scent. But she was using it,” Sherlock said.

“How did she get hurt?” John asked.

“Moran struck her when she was trying to save....” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. “Shouldn’t you go interrogate Moran now, Lestrade?”

~s~s~s~s~

Col. Sebastian Moran sat straight as a board waiting for DI Lestrade to enter the interview room, but the former officer’s military bearing couldn’t disguise his disturbing demeanor. His thin lips pressed in a flat line, he kept shifting his cold blue eyes side to side. His deeply lined forehead was knitted together in anger under a fringe of faded blonde hair. Like a wild animal ready to pounce, he could barely control his shaking hands. Everything about him said violence and aggression.

Sherlock studied him from other side of the two-way mirror. Peering forward, the detective took in every detail of his enemy’s appearance. John Watson sat down and shut his eyes to process all the information Sherlock had just given him on Moran.

“I don’t understand,” Watson said wearily. “According to you, Moran has the record of an honorable soldier. What happened?”

“When faced with a moral crossroads, he chose the criminal lifestyle. Moriarty sought him out soon after Moran returned from overseas.”

John stared at the man in question. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn Moran was staring at Sherlock. Watson shut his eyes. His head hurt, he was hungry, and he had to pee. He hadn’t even had a chance to ask Sherlock anything about the fake suicide or what had happened over the past three years. He hadn’t texted Sarah or...

“Oh God,” he muttered. “Mrs. Hudson. I need to let Mrs. Hudson know you’re alive before she reads about it in the paper.”

“Why would it be in the paper?” Sherlock focused only on Moran.

“Because nearly a dozen people saw you on Baker Street. Coming back to life is news. You’ll have to deal with everything that happened before you left.”

“Not now,” Sherlock snapped. His white-knuckled grip on the handkerchief increased. “This situation requires my undivided attention.”

John looked back over to Moran who was staring at the floor. Slowly he lifted his eyes. Vitriol and hate poured from Moran to where Sherlock stood. John got up and joined his friend.

“She’s going to be all right,” he said as a small smile crept across Moran’s face.

John Watson shuddered. It was the evilest thing he had ever seen.


	7. Chapter 7

Sally Donovan downshifted and steered her Mini into the parking garage. She had just gotten out of a relaxing bath and was planning on settling into a good mystery novel when Lestrade had called her to come back in. Throwing on the black slacks and white blouse she had just changed out of, she didn’t even stop to put in her contacts before heading out the door.

“Molly Hooper kidnapped?” she wondered aloud. How could blend-into-the-background Molly be involved in something that had led to her kidnapping? Sally had only had a handful of encounters with the pathologist and found her to be quiet, nice, and forgettable. Not the type of woman who would be a high-risk victim.

Musing over this, Sally pulled into her regular spot. With a few twists, she had her long, dark hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She adjusted her square-frame blue glasses and grabbed her bag.

When she exited the elevator, she saw her friend Bailey walking by with his mobile up to his ear.

“Guv?” she mouthed.

Pausing, he lowered his phone. “Interview two.”

She nodded her thanks and headed that direction, still puzzling over the situation. The only person who could remotely introduce danger into Dr. Hooper’s life would have been The Freak. It was the most poorly kept secret in the department that Molly had an unrequited crush on Sherlock Holmes. The only person who didn’t seem to know it was the man himself. But he couldn’t be a possibility. He had been dead for three years.

As Sally rounded the corner, she saw Lestrade in the distance talking emphatically with two men. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she increased her pace, her heels clicking a tattoo as she strode down the hallway. Dr. John Watson had his head down, focused on the text he was typing. The other man had his back to her. Long coat, raven curls, purple scarf.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she said, dumbfounded. “Freak?”

Sherlock didn’t even turn his head. “Donovan.”

Sighing, Lestrade looked like he had a headache. “Um, well as you can see, Donovan, Holmes is back.”

Sally felt anger build up in her like a pressure cooker. The Freak always found a way to break all the rules and make her department a laughing stock. She didn’t know how he was suddenly alive again, and she didn’t care. Brushing by him, she focused on her boss. “What’ve we got?” she asked tersely.

Lestrade gestured for her to follow him a few feet away. Shooting a dirty look at the consulting detective, she complied.

“What in the hell is he playing at?” she hissed.

“Moriarty had snipers following me, Watson, and Holmes’ landlady. They had orders to kill us if he didn’t kill himself.”

“What?”

“Holmes staged his suicide to save us and has spent the last three years tracking down the assassins. Tonight he caught the final one, Sebastian Moran.”

Sally considered all of these facts. “Wait. Moran? Wasn’t he the one who played cards with Ron Adair the night he was murdered?”

“Good memory. Yes. We have the probable murder weapon down in evidence. He used it to kill Adair and tonight tried to shoot Holmes. We had just arrested Moran when Molly Hooper was kidnapped yards away from us.”

“Why was Dr. Hooper even there? Oh, I see.” Sally worked it out. “The Freak manipulated her into helping him.”

“Undoubtedly. I’m going in to question Moran now. I want you to go through these documents. Then I want you to find what we are missing on him and go get that too.”

Donovan accepted the manila file from him and said confidently, “Yes sir.”

~s~s~s~s~

Unfortunately, the interview was over before it began.

“I am not going to speak to you until my representation gets here,” Moran announced when Lestrade stepped into the room. “I do, however, have something to tell _him_.”

A small twitch fired at the corner of the DI’s mouth. He had a quick decision to make. The law required him to respect Moran’s request. But the law didn’t say anything about a dead man talking to the suspect when the suspect himself requests it.

In the room on the other side of the mirror, Sherlock observed, “How does Moran win at cards? He has no poker face. I can read everything about him.”

Even though it had been three years since he had been around his best friend, John could still tell when Sherlock was teetering on the edge. A thin sheen of perspiration coated the detective’s forehead. He stood perfectly still and rarely blinked. The doctor knew Sherlock was livid that his moment of final victory over Moriarty had been taken away by Moran, livid that Molly had been kidnapped right in front of him and he couldn’t prevent it. But there was another barely contained emotion flickering across his alabaster face that John couldn’t pinpoint. All he knew was it wasn’t good.

Lestrade opened the door and stepped in. “He wants to talk to you.”

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, Moran just tried to kill you. Maybe you shouldn’t...”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed angrily. “What do you suggest, John? That I pass up this one opportunity to get him to divulge where Molly is?”

“You don’t have much time,” Lestrade said. “I have nothing to connect him to Molly’s kidnapping.”

Sherlock appraised the inspector’s meaningful glance, then stepped out into the hallway.

~s~s~s~s~s~

The two enemies locked eyes. Sherlock spoke first.

“Lestrade said you had a message for me.”

“Yes. The police only have a circumstantial case against me and it won’t stick.”

“Not true. The air gun will tie you to Adair’s murder. And I can prove you were trying to shoot me tonight.”

Moran smiled slyly. “That little incident? It was a harmless joke between mates.”

Sherlock brought his hand down on the table with an explosive bang. “You are wasting my time!”

Moran didn’t react but only quirked an eyebrow. “It’s funny you should say that,” he said and leaned back. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about? Time. And the fact that we never have enough of it. We don’t know what day will be our last. We may think we have all the time in the world to spend with the ones who _love_ us, but they may be gone before we know it, and we never see them again. It’s so sad.”

Moran lifted his left hand and let it drop in a dramatic gesture of futility. His right hand was cuffed to the table.

On the other side of the glass, John flinched. “Molly,” he whispered.

He looked over at Lestrade, but the detective remained intensely focused on Holmes. “Come on, Sherlock. Get him.”

“What game are you playing?” Sherlock stood in front of the table, his lean face expressionless.

“I don’t play games.” Moran smirked. “Except poker.”

“You are different from your master in that way.”

“Who?” Moran raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Moriarty. The man who had that air gun made especially to his specifications.” Sherlock slowly walked to the other side of the small room, Moran following him with hate-filled eyes.

“I don’t know who you mean,” Moran snapped.

“He always wanted to stay above the fray. But after our ‘incident’ in the empty house tonight, I do not get that impression from you.”

Moran simply smiled.

“Word play clearly is not your winning suit, unfortunately. At least with Moriarty, I was playing a genius. You are a lackey,” Sherlock said with disappointment.

“A lackey, am I?” Moran’s ruddy complexion darkened.

“You are an unworthy opponent.” Sherlock leaned against the wall. His voice remained even and controlled, but John could hear the fury just below the surface. “A pale imitation of one very dead James Moriarty. He shot himself, you know.”

The vein in Moran’s neck pulsed as the former colonel began to breathe harder.

Standing upright, Sherlock scratched his head. “Word is you were his best friend. But Moriarty did not have friends. He had people he controlled or intimidated. Which one were you?”

As Lestrade and Watson stood transfixed, watching the scene unfold before them, they didn’t notice Sally slip into the room. _Why did Lestrade let him in there?_ she thought, surprised.

Sherlock continued relentlessly. “It is clear that he was a puppet master. He pulled the strings and you jumped. Did you ask how high?”

The detective slowly circled Moran until he stood behind him. “Moriarty did not play well with others. He did not share. He was a psychopath who might have let you think he trusted you, but he only kept you around to take care of his dirty work.”

Sherlock leaned over and whispered in Moran’s ear. “To him you were a mongrel dog on a leash.”

With a roar, Moran leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair as he lunged toward Holmes. He would have reached the detective if his chain to the table didn’t restrain him. “You miserable son of a bitch! You don’t know anything!”

“No?” Sherlock snarled. “ _I_ am the one who broke Moriarty’s organization. I am the one who knows how every aspect of it worked. You cannot bluff me. He was the boss; you were nothing.”

Moran had a thin line of spittle running down his chin. “You are the one who is nothing! You should be dead. You would be dead if it weren’t for Molly Hooper! But she’ll pay now, won’t she? You will never find her in time!”

With a gleam of victory in his eyes, Sherlock whirled around to the two-way mirror. “Is that enough for your warrant?” he asked loudly.

Moran sank back into the chair, his face purple with anger. Sherlock looked at him menacingly.

“I will defeat you, just like I defeated Moriarty,” he said coldly. “You will not win. I am holding all aces.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock relished the moment Moran was taken out of the interrogation room. He swiftly walked down the hall to Lestrade's office. John, the evening’s events noticeably catching up with him, slumped down in the visitor's chair while the D.I. typed rapidly on his laptop.

"We've got what we need to get the warrant," Lestrade said without looking up. "Why don't you go home? We aren't going to get much more done at this hour."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock loomed over the desk.

"Go home," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock shook his head. "That may be how you approach cases, Lestrade, which may be why your rate of closing cases over the past three years is what it is, but I work. I will use your laptop..."

John rolled his eyes as Lestrade stood to look Sherlock in the eye.

"You aren't listening!" he shouted.

"My brother has an unfortunate habit of not hearing what he doesn't like," said a polished, articulate voice at the doorway.

Watson chuckled to himself. Of course, if Sherlock were back, Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be far behind. He took in the man's pinstripe suit, red tie, and unruffled appearance. Mycroft didn't look like he had aged a day since John had last seen him. When was that? Oh yes. Sherlock's funeral. Gradually John's smile faded as he watched Mycroft's face. The man wasn't in the least surprised to see his young brother alive and well.

"You took your sweet time," Sherlock snapped, snatching a DVD from Mycroft’s hands.

"Even I have to abide by the laws of time and physics," Mycroft said drily.

Sherlock turned Lestrade's laptop to face him and slipped the DVD into the computer. "What did you find?"

"CCTV captured the van until time code 2147. At that point, the van passes a larger truck and when the next camera picks up, it's gone."

"Worthless," Sherlock muttered darkly. "What about the plate number?"

"Anthea traced it. The van was—”

“Reported stolen a week ago from Grossman's Flowers." Sally stood directly behind Mycroft, who turned and inclined his head toward her.

Sherlock glared at his brother. "One would think with all of your connections, you could be more useful."

Mycroft sighed like a long-suffering martyr. "Why did you call me in the first place?"

"At the time it was the most expedient and logical thing to do." Sherlock glowered.

"By the way, how did the coal tar derivative experiments in Mozambique go?" Mycroft asked, amused.

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "There was an explosion," he finally replied.

John sighed, all doubt erased. Sherlock and Mycroft had stayed in touch, in some fashion, for these past three years.

"Right," Lestrade said, tired of hearing the Holmes brothers snipe at one another. "We'll go through every inch of Moran's life and we will get Molly back. Sherlock, John, Mr. Holmes—go home."

"I will stay here tonight," Sherlock announced.

"No, you won't." Lestrade addressed the consulting detective in a tone a parent might use when dealing with a petulant child.

John looked pointedly at Mycroft, but the elder Holmes didn't return the look or invite his brother to come home with him.

"Sherlock, I've texted Sarah about this whole thing. You'll stay with us," John said.

Sherlock's mind appeared to be elsewhere. "Thank you, no. I will go home to Baker Street."

"Afraid not, Sherlock. Anderson and his team are at your place. It's still a crime scene," Lestrade said.

"Anderson is in my flat?" Sherlock's blue eyes darkened.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, stop being a stupid prat. Just come home with me."

Wrapping his purple scarf around his neck with a flourish, Sherlock walked past Mycroft and Donovan without so much as a backward glance. "I will go to Molly's flat. I need to use her computer."

"What happened to your last laptop?" Mycroft called after him.

Sherlock continued walking. "It was involved in the explosion. Obviously."

~s~s~s~s~

Molly Hooper awoke with a blinding headache that was worse than the most awful red wine hangover she had ever had. Even moving her eyeballs under her tightly closed eyelids caused relentless hammering at her temples. Unsticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth, she tried swallowing repeatedly, but what she really needed was a drink of water. She licked her parched lips and felt that the top one was swollen and sore. What had happened?

It was only when she tried to move her leaden arms and legs that she remembered the needle stick in her shoulder and the man in the van. Her eyes flew open and she gasped. She was lying flat on her back in total darkness.

_Keep it together_ , she thought. _He probably gave you something a benzo. Your head will clear in a few._

As the fog lifted over time, she reviewed every detail of the evening. Sherlock, the bust, the fight, John. Being thrown over the giant man's shoulder and carried to a waiting van. Slowly moving her hands along the surface she was lying on, she soon realized it was a very hard floor. With a groan, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Wherever she was, it was stuffy with very little air moving. She scooted backward and extended her arm, feeling for a wall. But when her fingers did brush over a surface, she was surprised to feel softness. Managing to get onto her hands and knees, she crawled over to the wall and reached higher. It felt like foam packing material.

Confused, Molly rose to her feet, fighting off a wave of nausea. Methodically, she felt her way around the entire room. It only was about the size of a large walk-in closet, and it was empty. Three walls were covered with the soft foam. A door took up the short fourth wall, and it was covered with a layer of the foam, too. She grasped the knob and slowly turned it, but it was locked.

Her head pounding unbearably, Molly slid back down on the floor and looked under the door. Through the tiny gap she could only see more darkness. "Help," she tried to shout but it came out more like a raspy whisper.

"OK. It's OK," she told herself in a reassuring tone. "Sherlock saw. He's coming. He'll be here soon."

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock used the spare key Molly had given him to enter her flat. He flicked on the lights and quickly assessed the room. No one had been there. He slowly walked to the kitchen and noticed some dishes stacked in the sink. Had he offered to wash up? It didn't seem like something he would do. Molly liked her kitchen neat.

Over his week with her, he hadn't had a need to enter Molly's bedroom, except for the time when she had moved the laptop from where he kept it. But tonight Sherlock wanted to see it. He turned on the lights and took in all the details of the room. Tossed carelessly on her bed was the pink blouse Molly had worn to work. It was cotton, simple, with a ruffled collar. _Why did she insist on changing clothes?_ Sherlock puzzled. While not stylish or attractive, her outfit had been suitable.

He absently walked over to her small wooden dresser. By a woodland fairy figurine was a dog-eared paperback novel, _Waltzing with the Wallflower_. He smirked. _Regency Period romantic ideal._ Picking up a bottle of her perfume, he inhaled. Clean, slightly floral, feminine. It smelled just like her. He set it back down next to a pair of small gold hoop earrings.

He went over to her nightstand. The jewel case on her CD alarm clock was for _Sleepless in Seattle_ , one of the movies she had insisted on watching while he was doing research three days ago. _Sentimental drivel designed to play on a person's futile hope for finding his or her soul mate._ That's what he had tried to tell her, but she had shushed him.

A stack of books sat on the floor next to her bed. When Sherlock had asked her if she had an eBook reader, Molly had shook her head.

"I love the feel of books, hearing the spine crack open for the first time. Coming home from the bookshop with a new read is a pleasure," she had explained.

Sherlock picked the books up. _Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking._ Sherlock quickly deduced her motive for reading it: _Wants to feel reassured that being a quiet person is all right._

_Proving Darwin: Making Biology Mathematical_. Sherlock turned the book over. _She is scientific-minded. Wants to continue her education_. Slipped inside the cover was a print out of a call for papers from the _Journal of Pathology_ of the Pathological Society of Great Britain and Ireland. Sherlock nodded approvingly. _Smart, skilled, detailed. Interested in sharing her research and receiving recognition for her work._

The third book was obviously new because she used the receipt for it, dated two days earlier, as a bookmark. But its subject matter puzzled him: _Thinking, Fast and Slow_. Sherlock frowned. This wasn't Molly's type of reading material. Puzzled, he put the book with the others and reached in his pocket to finger the handkerchief she had used.

As he turned to leave, he noticed for the first time an inexpensive framed print hanging by her bedroom door. It was of a ballerina in an elegant romantic-length tutu dress with a sparkling blue and silver bodice. She stood alone backstage, stealing a glance around the curtain at the audience that was hidden in darkness. Even though she was shown only in profile, the artist captured perfectly the ballerina's nervousness and excitement. This picture was utterly Molly.

Molly, who was totally without guile.

When the first realization hit him, they kept coming one after another, like waves rolling into shore.

Molly was exactly who she appeared to be, just like the ballerina, just like everything in this flat. She was warm-hearted, kind. She cared. And the only reason she had bought the third book was to understand him better. 

Because she didn't just have a crush on him, which he had discovered that one Christmas. 

She loved him.

He sank heavily down onto the edge of her bed. For as brilliant as he was, Sherlock knew John was right deeming him "clueless" about feelings, both his and those of other people. That is, unless he could use those feelings to get what he wanted. 

_"I'll always care for you, Sherlock, because that's who I am. I'm not going to change. But after tonight I want you stop using my feelings for you in order to have an advantage over me."_

Her words echoed bittersweet in his mind. He often treated her rudely. But it was crueler when he treated her nicely, intentionally paying her a compliment or flashing her a smile when he wanted something. 

Mycroft would always be there because he was family. John would always be there because he was his best friend. But Molly would always be there for him because she chose to love him. Not the manipulations and power plays The Woman had offered. It was an abiding love that was deep and kind.

He had done nothing to deserve her affection or loyalty. Molly loved him...for him.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock gripped the handkerchief.

"I will find you," he said into the empty room.


	9. Chapter 9

Bone tired and chilled, John Watson should have fallen right into bed the moment he got home. God knows he wanted to. But his mind had kept racing ever since he had left Lestrade's office. Sarah had been asleep for hours and John didn't want to chance waking her with his tossing and turning, so he went to their small kitchen and made a quiet cup of tea. Settling into his favorite soft chair, he kicked off his shoes, leaned back, and sighed. Still exhausted from the wide range of emotions that had gripped him all evening, John nonetheless couldn't help grinning.

_Sherlock was alive._

John wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen the detective with his own eyes. His best friend didn't appear to have changed much over the past three years. Imperious, demanding, arrogant. Maddening, brilliant, true.

Sherlock hadn't even been back in John's life for ten minutes when they were thrust headlong into solving a crime, just like when they had visited 221B Baker Street together for the first time. But this wasn't just any crime. Their friend had been kidnapped right in front of them.

"John?" Sarah switched on a table lamp and padded over to the couch, her blue eyes heavy with sleep.

"Sorry," he began ruefully, but she waved him off as she sat down.

"I was half awake anyway," she said, eyeing John carefully. "This whole thing with Sherlock.... How are you?"

John took a sip of tea. He wouldn't try to hide anything from her; she knew him too well. "I'm happy he's alive. I'm angry that he lied to me. It's a lot to process."

Sarah nodded. She had witnessed firsthand what John had gone through after Sherlock's "death" and remembered all too well what it took for her to bring him back from the edge of despair. He had clung to her like a drowning man, lost and alone. Perhaps moving in together had happened too soon after the funeral, but they had made it work. Sarah had the foresight to know John's love of adventure wouldn't just go away, so she encouraged his interest in following criminal cases and studying weapons. And when he expressed a desire to work with former service members who were having a hard time adjusting to civilian life, she had supported him wholeheartedly.

As a couple, they just clicked. Together they shared a love of watching classic movies and taking weekend trips to explore different corners of the country. They had developed close friendships with other couples that they hung out with. Most days John and Sarah worked at the clinic and most evenings they spent in front of the telly. And when they went to bed, John made her feel like she was the most desirable woman in the world. All in all, it was a good life. Maybe not as exciting as living with Sherlock Holmes, but John seemed content.

"Want to talk about it?" Sarah asked, absently running her fingers through her golden brown hair.

"Not right now," he answered. "Why don't you go back to bed? I'll follow in a bit."

She got up and tenderly kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you."

He grasped one of her hands and placed a kiss on the back of it. "I love you."

John warmly watched her leave the room. Of all the good fortune he had been blessed with in life, she remained incomparable.

He carried his cup to the kitchen and rinsed it out. Leaning against the counter, he worked out what he needed to do first in the morning. He didn't have clinic hours scheduled until later in the afternoon, so he would meet Sherlock and see what his friend had uncovered, because he knew Sherlock wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

John had missed this—the action. He had missed Sherlock.

~s~s~s~s~

Molly awoke in the same way she had gone to sleep: on a cold floor in darkness. But she didn't know how long she had been there, when she had fallen asleep, how long she had slept, or what time or day it was now. Her kidnappers hadn't returned to check on her, unless they came when she was asleep, and she knew she would've heard them.

Her throat was sore and scratchy, and thinking of a cool glass of water only made her more miserable. The pounding in her head had increased, probably due to dehydration. _I didn't eat or drink anything before going with Sherlock to Baker Street_ , she realized. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Fighting off the urge to cry, Molly got to her feet and once again tried the door. The lock was secure and no matter how many times she ran her petite shoulder against it, the door held solidly. She turned her attention once more to the walls, feeling her way around the small room in search of something, anything, to grab hold of. Finding nothing, she got on her hands and knees and painstakingly ran her hands over the floor. All she turned up was a paper clip.

Sitting with her back to the door, she fought back little bubbles of hysteria. _Did they leave me here to die?_ she thought.

"You are not going to die." Sherlock's voice filled the room, or maybe it was just in her mind.

"Really?" She choked back a sob. "Then I might be going mad, because you're a delusion."

"Molly," he said in a warning tone.

"They just dumped me in here," she said. "The man who grabbed me said he was Moran's second in command. Moran was Moriarty's second in command. That's not a ringing endorsement of kindness and sanity, now is it?"

"True," Sherlock conceded. "But you know I am on the case. And I am smarter than this lot."

"OK," Molly said softly, trying to regulate her breathing. "I trust you."

"As you should," he said. "Keep calm. I am going to find you."

~s~s~s~s~

DI Greg Lestrade let Sally Donovan handle Sebastian Moran's housekeeper, an angry older woman with wispy brown hair and a foul mouth concerning the police who had just shown up with a search warrant. Noting she must have run home to change into a gray tweed skirt and cream-colored blouse, Lestrade suppressed a smile as Donovan fought to maintain her professional demeanor in the face of the cursing woman.

Leaving them in the foyer, he bounded up the stairs of the modest home and watched as his people methodically went through everything. Lestrade felt sure they would turn up some clue as to the identity of Moran's accomplice. Meanwhile, his phone beeped impatiently.

**_Anything?_ **

**_\--SH_**  

Swallowing the urge to tell Sherlock once and for all that he did not work for the consulting detective, Lestrade instead typed in a reply.

**_Not yet._ **

**_\--Lestrade_ **

Sally joined him, looking back down the stairs at the glowering housekeeper. "Nice piece of work, that one is. Says Moran is the salt of the earth."

"Right," Lestrade scoffed. "Make sure we search every nook and cranny, yeah? Do we have his computer and mobile?"

"Already on their way to the office," she said. "O'Brien is ready and waiting to go through them with a fine-tooth comb."

"Sir?" An officer gestured for them to come into the second bedroom that served as Moran's study. "We found a false bottom in this desk drawer."

Lestrade excitedly watched as the contents of the hidden drawer saw the light of day: a small handgun, several stacks of cash, and a black ledger. Picking up the ledger, he flipped through pages filled with unlabeled columns of initials, numbers, other combinations of letters, and dates going back several years.

"Moran is old school. No computer spreadsheets for him," he murmured.

Sally leaned over to get a better look. "I get the dates, but what do the numbers refer to?" she wondered aloud.

"I want Sherlock to look it over," Lestrade said.

Hiding her displeasure, she nodded. "Yes, boss."

"You're in charge here, Donovan." Lestrade ran down the stairs and opened his phone. "Sherlock? Yeah, meet me in my office. We've got something."

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock's ice blue eyes shone brightly as he carefully noted every detail of the ledger. John looked on, noting how the dreadful pallor of his friend's skin contrasted dramatically with the purple bruise on his cheek. Sherlock clearly hadn't slept.

Lestrade put his hands on his hips. "Well?"

Sherlock snapped the ledger shut. "This is a record Moran kept of debts owed to him. While you were sleeping, I was investigating. I can prove Moran went online to contact compulsive gamblers on various message boards, invited them to lucrative card games. He let them win at first, then cheated and he began winning. He did this to such an extent that the unfortunate idiots kept playing in the hopes of 'winning it all back.' But they never won it all back. Occasionally he would let them win naturally in order to keep them returning, but he always returned to cheating. Soon they owed him more than the normal person could ever pay back in one lifetime.

"In the ledger the date is when the debt was accrued, the initials are of the person who owes the debt, and the numbers are the amount that is owed. Moran tracked every pound so he could hold it over the gamblers' heads. Those combination of letters are a code to indicate what type of game the person regularly lost at.

"There is one set of initials—AP—that begins three years ago and now has several pages dedicated to him or her, most likely a man. With this amount owed, what else would a man like Moran take in place of payment? Not all money, as proved by his low-key standard of living, No, Moran required service in his criminal enterprise. AP is his accomplice."

Watson nodded. "Brilliant."

Sherlock gave his friend a quick smile. "How else could Moran recruit people into the organization? His personality? He doesn't have the abilities or charisma of Moriarty."

"Yeah, OK, who is AP?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "He is on several online gaming sites and goes by the name LuckyAP1."

"I think I can help sort this out, guv."

Sherlock whirled around to see a young man in the doorway of Lestrade's office. He wore jeans and an old sweatshirt and could have passed for a uni student, but Sherlock noticed telltale signs that he was actually closer to thirty.

"O'Brien, meet Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Sherlock, John, this is J.T. O'Brien, our computer genius."

"What have you found?" Sherlock demanded abruptly, his glance not leaving the laptop O'Brien held.

If the techie was put off by Sherlock's manner, he didn't show it. "Your guy, Moran, wasn't a criminal mastermind by any stretch of the imagination, if you know what I mean. Not like the things I heard about Moriarty."

Sherlock's jaw clenched at the mention of Moriarty's name. He had a clever response for this young "genius," but O'Brien continued before he could speak. "Moran thought he was being clever in deleting his sent mail, but short of taking acid and a sledgehammer to a hard drive, there isn't anything I can't recover."

O'Brien opened Moran's laptop and set it on Lestrade's desk. "Moran placed a series of phone calls to the same number five minutes after he received your text, Mr. Holmes. No one answered. Then he sent an email that says 'Ring me.' Two minutes later he sent another to the same address. This one says, 'Where are you?' Three minutes after that he sends a third email, but this time to a different address. It says, 'Where is he? Get him here now.'"

"What are the email addresses?" Sherlock asked.

"See, this first one is LuckyAP1 and the second is Beethoven45," O'Brien replied.

"LuckyAP1? There's our AP!" John exclaimed. "How do we find out who he or she is?"

"It's a he," O'Brien stated and handed a piece of paper to Lestrade. "Andrew Parker. Here's his address."

"Great work! O'Brien here has been the nearest thing to having you these past three years!" Lestrade grinned ear to ear while Sherlock remained stone faced.

"Lestrade, if you are quite finished I would very much like to find Mr. Parker and save Dr. Hooper," Sherlock snapped. "John, with me!"


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade pounded on the door of Andrew Parker's flat with a team poised behind him. But there was no answer.

"He is not home, Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted again from where he and John stood watching at the railing. It had been obvious to him Parker hadn't been home in a day, even before he and John had gotten out of the taxi.

With a grunt of aggravation, Greg answered his ringing mobile. "Lestrade. Yes. Got it."

Hanging up he turned to his officers. "O'Brien has found an address of a local underground poker game Parker frequents. Let's go."

As the police rushed down the stairs, Sherlock held back. "Let them chase whatever lead the 'genius' came up with," he said snidely. "Parker won't be there."

"So what do we do now?" John asked.

"Look." Sherlock nodded to the flat across the way. The elderly woman who lived there was walking up with an armload of shopping bags and was not too subtly watching the pair. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock threw his arms around his neck.

"Oh, John, what am I going to do?" Sherlock cried with a tear-filled voice.

Confused, John played along. "There, there," he said, awkwardly patting Sherlock's back.

Sherlock unattached himself from John and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "Sorry," he said loudly. "I'm just so upset!"

John watched his friend in admiration. For a man who had disconnected himself from his feelings, Sherlock was able to mimic real emotions when he needed to at the drop of a hat.

Sherlock ruefully caught the woman's eye as she unlocked her front door. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to disturb."

"You're quite all right," she said, peering at him curiously. "Are you all right?"

"I'll...be fine," Sherlock said like a true martyr.

"Can we help you with those?" John asked, gesturing to her bags.

She smiled gratefully. "Yes, thank you."

Sherlock and John each took a bag from her.

"Do you know Andrew Parker?" she asked Sherlock as they walked through her blue-themed living room to the kitchen.

Sherlock sniffled. "I leant him some money."

The woman clicked her tongue. "Say no more, son. You won't see that money again."

"Wh-what?" Sherlock gaped at her.

She nodded knowingly, setting her purse down on the small kitchen table. "Andrew is a gambler, didn't you know that? Oh dear, did he give you that nasty bruise?"

She ran her hand across Sherlock's cheek in a motherly way. He bit his lip and pretended to fight back tears. "I told Andrew last night that I had to get the money back—my dad is having a surgery—and he hit me."

"That's a shame. First, he lost The Hot Spot, then Sofia left him. Now he's driving away friends like you."

"I haven't seen Sofia in ages," Sherlock said, leaning in toward the woman with his most endearing smile. "Do you happen to have her current address?"

~s~s~s~s~

The crowded flat was too small to hold a baby grand piano, but one dominated the main sitting room. Sherlock gazed at it for a moment, then turned his attention to the short blonde woman who had let them into her home. Wearing a pink floral dressing gown and heels, Sofia Ivansky stood with her hands in her pockets.

"What do you want?" she asked in a croaky voice.

"Where's your husband?" John asked.

Sofia regarded him coldly. "He isn't my husband. I haven't seen or talked to him in a month."

"That is a lie," Sherlock stated, surveying the framed pictures on the piano. "You spoke with him yesterday."

Startled by the certainty in his voice, Sofia swayed slightly. John reached forward and steadied her arm. "That isn't true," she coughed.

"Tell me," Sherlock said haughtily, "did you become an alcoholic before or after Moran strangled you and broke your hand?"

Sofia didn't answer but instead blinked slowly and sank down to the sofa. "Who told you?"

"You did."

"How?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Shall I tell you what I know about you?" he asked archly.

"Yes." Sofia's watery blue eyes watched him suspiciously.

Sherlock began. "You were born in Russia but immigrated when you were young. You are an alcoholic and have been for two years, maybe three. Music is both a passion and a source of grief for you. It also is why you resent your boyfriend. He, on the other hand, will do anything for you."

Sofia sat quietly for a minute. "How do you know?"

"Your English is impeccable, but you still have a trace of an accent. You are, as they say, currently three sheets to the wind, as indicated by your erratic gait and the distinct odor of whiskey on your breath. To be drunk this early in the day can only mean a chronic drinking problem, one that started after you lost your music career.

"Your love of music is obvious: your email address, the baby grand, the photo of you singing on stage." He picked up a framed picture of Sofia at a microphone wearing a bright red dress. "It is a grief for you because your right hand and fingers were obviously broken in such a way that they never healed correctly. You can no longer play. I also know you no longer play because your piano is covered in dust, the result of not having been touched in a long time. But it is something you still value highly and feel sentimental about, so you keep it.

"Your raspy voice and persistent cough indicate damaged vocal chords that resulted from strangling. This condition keeps you from singing. The only person who would have had a reason to harm you is Moran. Why? To give Parker an extra 'incentive' to join his crime ring, in addition to the gambling debt. You blame and resent him for the loss of your musical career. That's why you left him. He, however, loves you and continues to do whatever Moran wants in order to keep you safe."

Sofia pulled her disfigured hand from the pocket of her robe and held it up for them to see. "Andrew took me to the very best surgeons. But there was nothing to be done. I knew it from the start. But he always held out hope."

She stood and walked unsteadily over to the piano. "I was barely out of school when Andrew hired me to play and sing at the martini bar he owned." She smiled wistfully. "Those were great days. Music meant everything to me, and Andrew wanted to give me the world. He even converted the offices above the bar into a recording studio, just for me. Then everything fell apart."

"His gambling?" John asked.

She snorted in contempt. "Andrew couldn't stop. Three years ago he met Moran online. We lost the house first. Then he had to close the bar. He owed Moran so much money. He tried to get out; that's when Moran attacked me. He wrapped a wire around my throat until I passed out. When I woke up, my hand was smashed. After that, Andrew obeyed Moran. Never questioned him, never stepped outside the lines. Only did what he was told."

"Including kidnapping Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Sofia looked away.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Sofia stubbornly shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I have never been involved."

Sherlock sat and rubbed his temples. "Moran tried to reach Parker, but Parker didn't pick up. Moran knew Parker would always answer your call, so he contacted you. You made Parker return Moran's call and he got his marching orders: kidnap Molly Hooper. So where did he take her? Somewhere no one would see or hear her. Somewhere he had easy access to." Sherlock jumped to his feet. "I know where she is!"

"Where are we going?" John asked as they ran from the flat, leaving the door open behind them.

"Music!"


	11. Chapter 11

Bounding down the front steps from Sofia's flat, Sherlock hailed the first cab he saw and the two men leaped in.

"A former martini bar called The Hot Spot. Know it?" Sherlock perched on the edge of his seat.

"Sure do, guv. Popular place in its day, but now it's closed for good. Still want to go?" the cabbie asked helpfully.

"There will be an extra fiver in it for you if you set a new record for getting us there," Sherlock promised.

"You've got it." The cab tore away from the curb as if were racing in the Grand Prix.

"Why The Hot Spot?" John asked.

"Parker no other instructions but to grab Molly. He didn't have time to come up with a secret place to hold her. It makes sense that he would take Molly somewhere he knew well, somewhere he was familiar with. Where else but his former business? Above the bar is a recording studio, where there is sure to be a soundproof recording booth. No one would hear her call for help. She's there, John, she's there," Sherlock said, determined. "I know it."

~s~s~s~s~

Molly sat bolt upright, eyes wide, her heart pounding. She had spent hours reciting prayers her Gran had taught her as a child. Then she tried to sing to keep her spirits up, but her throat hurt too much, so she ended up humming. She started with pop songs, followed by Broadway hits alternating between _Wicked_ and _Les Mis_. By the end, she only had enough energy left to hum a few simple melodies she remembered from childhood.

But then something in the stagnant room changed. Panicked, she quickly ran to one of the corners furthest away from the door. She heard the scrape of metal and approaching footsteps. Someone was coming.

Molly's small frame shook in fear and anticipation. Her kidnapper had been a mountain of a man. If that was whom she heard, there was no way she could fight him physically. But she could surprise him. Taking the paperclip from her jeans pocket, she stretched it out with shaking fingers until it was a straight line. She then wrapped it around two of the fingers on her right hand until the ends stuck out as two sharp points. Molly huddled down, closed her eyes, and brought her knees to her chest. If she could fool him into thinking she was unconscious, she had a chance.

After hours of silence, the key sounded like thunder as it turned in the lock. Molly tried to concentrate on keeping her breathing even and her face impassive by thinking of the expressionless looks Sherlock often gave her.

The warmth of a flashlight beam hit her cheek as the labored breathing of a heavy person came closer. She felt his hot breath on her face as he squatted next to her and placed two fingers on the side of her throat. He grunted in satisfaction that she still had a pulse.

It was now or never.

With a yell Molly didn't know she had in her, she sprang up and shoved the man backward as hard as she could, sending him sprawling off balance. As she leaped over his outstretched legs, he made a grab for her ankle, but Molly kicked him. Gasping for air, she ran blindly out of her cell into an equally dark but larger room. Her eyes darted around until she spied the silhouette of an open door to a hallway. Stumbling forward, she had just reached the doorframe when the man grabbed her from behind. With a scream, she whirled around and punched in the direction of his face. He cried out in pain as the paperclip struck near his eye.

Molly ran out the door and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom light streamed in around a row of boarded-up windows. Running toward them, she didn't hear the man catching up with her until it was too late.

~s~s~s~s~

With the promise of extra money, the cabbie made quick work of switching lanes at an alarming speed and got them to the club in fifteen minutes. As they slowed in front of the derelict club, Sherlock noted an iron gate was still securely fastened across the door.

"No one has come through this entrance. Drive around back," he ordered.

The cabbie circled the block. Just as they approached the access alley, a white van shot out of it like a bullet, almost hitting them.

"The white van!" John pointed. "Sherlock, that's the same white van!"

Sherlock had recognized it instantly. "Follow it!"

As the cab took a corner sharply, John reached in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. "Lestrade, it's Watson. We're following him right now! Parker! We're headed...oh hell, where are we?"

"We're on Park!" Sherlock shouted, leaning so far forward he was practically in the front seat.

"We're going west on Park, just past Willow! Molly is being held at an old club called The Hot Spot."

"She is not there," Sherlock said gravely. "She is in that van. Why else did Parker go to the club at the exact moment we were heading there? Sofia must have tipped him off. Stupid, stupid!" he shouted at himself. 

"Parker is in the white van he used last night," John reported to Lestrade. "Sherlock thinks Molly is in it."

The van suddenly accelerated forward in a burst of speed.

"He has spotted us. Go faster!" Sherlock shouted as the van cut off a bus. He and John were thrown to the left by the force of the cab turning.

The cabbie hit the gas until they were almost even with Parker, but as the two cars raced toward the next junction, the light turned red. The cabbie hit his squealing breaks, but just like the night before, the van didn't slow down. It plowed through the intersection like a bat out of hell. 

"No!"

Sherlock helplessly watched a large sedan hit the van broadside. In the midst of groaning metal and screaming rubber, the vehicles spun in a sickening dance. Then the car released its hold on the van and sent it sideways straight into a light pole.

He was off running before the taxi could come to a stop.

"Lestrade, the van has been hit by a car!" John shouted into the phone. "At the junction with State. Send an ambulance!"

"I've got a first aid kit!" offered the cabbie, handing a small white-and-red box to John.

 _Please, please, please_. He sent a silent prayer skyward as he rushed across the street. John had seen many dead bodies; he didn't want to see one of his friends.

The van was upright, crumbled on the left side where the car had struck. The cab portion had been completely destroyed after hitting pole. Sherlock and two other bystanders were prying the back door of the van open with their bare hands as John ran up. With a final pull, they open the door enough for Sherlock to climb through.

He found the limp form of Molly Hooper.

She had been unrestrained in the back of the van, and when the car hit it, she had bounced off its walls like a pinball.

"Sherlock, get out of the way! Bloody move!" John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him away from hovering over Molly.

John's battlefield medical training kicked in as he quickly began to do triage on Molly. The most dramatic and obvious injury was the two-inch cut at her hairline that sent streams of blood streaking down her face.

"Hold this on her cut," he instructed Sherlock, handing him some gauze. The detective maneuvered behind the unconscious woman, gently placing her head on his knees.

"Head wounds can bleed excessively but may not be serious," Sherlock stated quietly as he applied pressure to her injury. John's eyes flicked up to Sherlock's worried face and he grunted in agreement.

John expertly felt the back of her head and noted a goose egg-size lump. Quickly running his hands over her limbs, he didn't detect any broken bones. But when he gently palpated her belly, then felt her rib cage, he detected at least two cracked ribs on her right side.

"The cut isn't what worries me." Noting Molly's shallow breathing, John placed his ear to her chest. "Damn!"

"What?" Sherlock's brows furrowed together. 

"Possible pneumothorax. We need medical here now!" 


	12. Chapter 12

For all his intellectual understanding of the impact emotions can have on a person's physiology, Sherlock didn't always put the two together. That was because he rarely let himself feel anything. At all. But the truth of the matter, if he ever cared to acknowledge it, was that he felt like anyone else. He just had buried his feelings for so long that he couldn't always identify what he was experiencing let alone know how to act. And now he had reached a point where he could ignore almost all of his physical reactions.

When he and John had pursued the white van, Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears and his palms felt sweaty, but he chose to ignore those reactions. With his focus only on the car that held Molly Hooper, he strategized three steps ahead of any move Parker might make. When the sedan hit the van, an outcome he hadn't factored in, Sherlock almost felt physically ill, an inconvenience he paid no attention to.

It was when he and the other men had forced the back door of the van open and he saw Molly Hooper, unconscious and bleeding, crumpled before him that he had trouble breathing and hearing, two things he couldn't ignore. John said something to him, but it sounded as if he were under water. It wasn't until he had physically made him move that Sherlock came back to himself.

The next series of events happened quickly, but Sherlock noted every detail. Police cars arrived quickly, then an ambulance, at which time John ordered him out of the van. There wasn't enough room for all of them.

Outside, Lestrade had told him that Parker was dead and the man who was driving the sedan had been seriously injured. Sherlock understood the significance of knowing about Parker and his death's implications on the case against Moran, but he considered information about the unknown driver as irrelevant. He was about to tell Lestrade this when the medics and John hustled Molly out of her metal prison and into the waiting ambulance.

"I am coming with you," he informed John, but his friend shook his head.

"No. Meet us at St. Bart's."

The ambulance doors closed and an officer sent it off with two taps of the rear door. Sherlock stood silently, wondering why his hands were shaking.

 _Adrenaline_ , he reasoned. _Lack of sleep and food. Moran. The past three years._

_Molly Hooper?_

~s~s~s~s~

Sherlock tried to persuade Lestrade into taking him to the hospital, but the DI couldn't leave the scene of the accident. So he found the accommodating cabbie waiting for him at the corner.

"Take me to St. Bart's." Sherlock leaned back in the seat and adjusted his scarf.

"You saved her, didn't you? You saved that girl in the van?" The man sounded awed as he pulled into traffic.

"What? I am sorry, but I have not had the best experience with cabbies," Sherlock muttered.

"That's fine, guv. We don't need to talk. I just want you to know that was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen. Really impressive. This fare is on me."

Sherlock reluctantly looked at the cabbie, an average looking middle-aged man with thinning reddish-brown hair and a mustache. "What is your name?"

"William Stewart."

The cab pulled up to the emergency entrance. "Give me your cell number."

William paused. "What?"

"Give me your direct mobile number. From now on, you are my cabbie."

William handed Sherlock his number; Sherlock gave William the contents of his wallet.

~s~s~s~s~

John found Sherlock in the waiting room and explained that Molly had been stable but unconscious on the way to the hospital. The doctor treating Molly would be in shortly with an update. Without a word, Sherlock paced a well-worn path that many others over the years had followed on the waiting room floor, his hands clasped behind his back.

John dropped into the nearest empty chair. He hadn't done frontline medical work in an emergency situation in years. He had scrubbed and scrubbed the stains, but he still felt as if Molly's blood was on his hands. With a sigh, he looked up to see Sarah standing in front of him, the bright hospital lights shining down on her long hair. "Hi!" he said, happy to see her.

"Hi yourself."

Her tone caused him to do a double take. "Oh crap. I missed my clinic hours, didn't I?"

Sarah sat down next to him and pulled a paper bag from her purse. "Yes. But I covered for you."

"I am so sorry," John said emphatically, "but you see we had a lead..."

"What John is trying but failing to explain is he played a vital role in rescuing Molly Hooper today," Sherlock said as he stopped near them. "Hello, Sharon."

John winced in embarrassment, but Sarah simply said, "Hello, Sherlock. Welcome home."

He gave her a fake smile, then resumed his pacing.

Sarah reached into the paper bag and handed John a sandwich. "I figured you didn't have time to eat today."

"I don't deserve you." John kissed her. "How did you know I was here?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me."

"What?" he exclaimed, looking around for his former landlady.

"She finally got the message you left yesterday at her B and B about Sherlock's 'return.' She's on her way back to London as we speak, and she's been burning up the phone lines trying to get information on what is going on. Apparently she reached Sally Donovan and learned about the accident. I returned her call after I got off work and she already knew more than I did."

"Molly Hooper?" A short older woman in a white lab coat called out. At once Sherlock, John, and Sarah formed a semicircle around her. "Are you her relatives?"

"Yes," Sherlock lied.

"No," John said simultaneously.

The doctor eyed them suspiciously. "I need to talk to her family."

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade flashed his warrant card as he walked up to the group. "Dr. Hooper was injured as a result of a kidnapping. She has no living relatives, so you can report her condition to me."

Dr. Lewis looked as if she was prepared to argue, but in the face of a worried detective, two intense doctors, and one slightly dangerous-looking detective, she relented. "Molly is pretty sick. Chest x-rays show she has a collapsed lung caused by the fractured ribs on her right side. We've been able to re-inflate the lung. The ribs should heal over time.

"The good news is that she does not have a skull fracture, but she does have a concussion. She also is severely dehydrated. But what is of a greater concern is that she apparently was given a dose of a strong sedative, possibly even a barbiturate."

"Oh no," sighed Sarah. Sherlock stared off in the other direction while John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What?" Lestrade looked from one to the next. "What's that mean?"

"It has slowed down her respirations to a dangerous level," she explained.

"Have you put her on a ventilator?" John asked anxiously.

"For tonight, yes," Dr. Lewis said as Sherlock made a frustrated sound deep in his throat. "As soon as the drug is out of her system and she is doing better, we'll remove it."

"But when will she wake up?" Lestrade persisted.

"It's difficult to say," the doctor explained. "Of course, we want her to wake up soon, but with a trauma like this coupled with the drug, it might be a while. We'll watch her closely."

"I want to see her," Sherlock demanded.

"Not yet," Dr. Lewis said firmly. "We have more tests to run, then she will be moved to ICU. Once she is off the vent and things look good, we'll take her out of ICU. I'll keep you informed of any developments."

~s~s~s~s~

A long evening stretched into a longer night. Sarah convinced John to come home with her, though the doctor was reluctant to leave his best friend. But after Sherlock called him an idiot and told him he wasn't wanted or needed, John decided it was all right to go get a few hours of sleep.

Lestrade took Sherlock's statement about the events that transpired, then told him what Donovan had discovered at The Hot Spot. "No real physical evidence, but it looks like Parker held Molly in some type of recording booth upstairs. There was nothing that showed she was restrained, but also no food or water was there."

Sherlock clinched his fists until his knuckles turned white. "I am glad Parker is dead."

Even Sherlock realized the red-hot feeling burning a hole in his stomach was anger, the same anger that caused him to throw a man into Mrs. Hudson's bins after she was attacked at Baker Street. Some niggling thought danced around the edges of his focused thinking. He knew he cared for Mrs. Hudson and would do anything to keep her safe. Did this mean he felt the same for Molly?

"Sherlock! Where is he? Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson flew into the waiting room and made a beeline for her former tenant. Throwing arms around him, she held Sherlock tightly then pushed him away.

"You are a terrible, terrible man! Making me think I'd lost you, going to your funeral. And poor John, what he went through! Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes.

For a few seconds, Sherlock almost looked remorseful. "Mrs. Hudson, I am sorry for any inconvenience you experienced, but Mycroft did maintain my rooms, so you did not lack in income."

"Was that an apology, young man? Because it didn't sound like one to me!" she declared, smacking him on the arm.

"Sheryl said she had spoken with you. I expected you to arrive earlier," Sherlock stated.

"Do you mean Sarah, dear?" Mrs. Hudson straightened her lavender jumper. "Yes, well, I had hoped to be here earlier, but we made terrible time, got stuck behind trucks. You know how traffic can be in that part of the world, don't you? No one is in a hurry at all. Not like London!" 

Sherlock looked her over, head to toe. "You stopped for tea and a sandwich. And, if I am not mistaken, you snogged for a while, too. So it was not all traffic."

Mrs. Hudson turned bright red and smacked Sherlock again. "I did not stop to snog! Of all the ideas! I am not that type of girl, Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Olson merely gave me a kiss goodbye when he dropped me off outside."

Sherlock grinned. "I hope my moving back into Baker Street immediately will not be problematic."

Standing on her tiptoes, Mrs. Hudson kissed him on the cheek. "This time I am writing something into the agreement about not having heads and thumbs and bodily fluids kept in the kitchen."

Sherlock walked to the window and gazed up at the stars in the velvety sky. "I am very happy to see you Mrs. Hudson."

~s~s~s~s~

When John arrived the next day, he found Sherlock in the same spot he had left him, but the detective's usually pristine appearance had changed. He had removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his white button up.

"Any news?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at him, annoyed. "They took her off the vent this morning."

John smiled in relief. "Good, very good. Sherlock, she is going to be OK. You don't need to worry so."

"Who said I was worried?" he snapped, obviously worried.

Greg Lestrade joined them looking just as haggard as Sherlock. He had gone home briefly to change clothes, but he hadn't really slept. "Word of your resurrection has spread, Sherlock. When you 'died,' you had escaped police custody and were under suspicion of kidnapping. I just got a call from my guv. You need to come in."

"Come now, Lestrade!" Sherlock angrily said. "You know I am innocent!"

"I know," the older man conceded. "I've always known."

John threw his hands up in exasperation. "This is preposterous! He just helped you solve a murder and a kidnapping. For God's sake, he saved your life!"

"I am not leaving this hospital until I know Molly Hooper will be all right," Sherlock growled.

"Orders come from a higher pay grade than mine," Lestrade said apologetically. "You've got to come, Sherlock."

"And I bring orders from the _highest_ pay grade."

Mycroft Holmes stood at the entrance of the waiting room in a dapper dark blue suit. Sherlock almost looked glad to see him, if looking glad meant he didn't sneer in contempt.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade respectfully walked up to him.

"It's all right, detective inspector," Mycroft said, staying focused on his brother's unkempt appearance. "Your superiors are receiving proof on the kidnapping case that makes arresting Sherlock moot. Anthea?"

Mycroft's assistant walked up behind him, texting rapidly. The attractive brunette looked up from her phone for a moment. "Done."

"Moriarty? A mask that looked like my face?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft brushed some lint off his sleeve. "Just so. That is why the child screamed when she saw you."

"So it is finally done then."

"Yes," Mycroft said. "You can return to your life of solving crime, if that is your wish."

Sherlock regarded his brother evenly. "It is."

Mycroft left as silently as he had appeared. Anthea was already nowhere to be seen. 

~s~s~s~s~

When they finally received word that Molly had been transferred out of ICU, Sherlock waited five minutes, then lead John down the hall to the elevator.

"Dr. Lewis said she can't have any visitors," John reminded him as Sherlock punched the buttons.

"I am not just any visitor," Sherlock said darkly. The elevator doors opened and the two men strode down the hall to room 312.

In the midst of IV tubes and lead wires, Molly looked like a young girl with her long hair swept over one shoulder. The bandage on her head stood in sharp contrast to the dark rings that circled her closed eyes.

Sherlock raised his hand to stop John in his tracks. "Quiet! Do you hear that?"

"What?"

"Listen!" he snapped.

They both heard it now. A faint humming. Under her oxygen mask, Molly was humming.

"She's waking up! I'll get Dr. Morris," John rushed from the room.

"Molly!" Sherlock's laser intensity focused on the now-silent pathologist. "Molly, can you hear me?"

He pulled the visitor's chair next to the bed and sat down. With a shuddering sigh, he rested his forehead against his clasped hands. To a passerby, he might have looked like a penitent man. But whatever he may have promised, admitted, or declared in the silent hospital room, no one heard.


	13. Chapter 13

"And then I returned to London. There, you have it all." Sherlock leaned back and sighed.

"That...is incredible," John said, shaking his head in wonder. "And your 'suicide'? How were you able to remember that St. Bart's was undergoing a refit when you were under so much pressure?"

"I went to my mind palace," Sherlock replied. "I had read about the hospital months earlier."

"Incredible," John repeated, his eyes misty. "You went through a lot on my account."

Forty-five minutes earlier Molly's doctor had ordered the pair from her patient's bedside, at one point even threatening to ban a particularly recalcitrant Sherlock from ever being allowed back. Only when John stood two inches from his face and promised him serious physical harm did Sherlock storm out to wait down the hall. Sitting next to one another on uncomfortable chairs, John thought he had distracted Sherlock by getting him to recount the events of the past three years. Except Sherlock could never really be distracted. He was like a computer with many programs running simultaneously. He simply let the Molly program run in the background for a little while.

"You would have done the same," Sherlock declared abruptly.

"What?"

"If our positions had been reversed, you would have done the same."

"Yes, of course. But the fact is I owe you my life."

Allowing the first outward sign of fatigue to show in front of John, Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but just for a few seconds. "These florescent lights are too bright."

"Would you like some tea?"

Sherlock regarded John as if his friend had just grown a second head. "I find it sad that you would think the tepid swill in this place is acceptable."

"A simple 'No thank you' would suffice," John chided him.

With a swish of her white lab coat, Dr. Morris walked up to them.

"How is Molly?" John asked as both he and Sherlock jumped to their feet.

"Her O2 sat rate is lower than what I'd like, but I have high hopes for a full recovery," the physician said.

"Is she awake?" Sherlock demanded.

"She's in and out."

John was starting to thank the doctor when Sherlock rushed by them. "Sherlock, wait!"

Ignoring his friend, the detective walked purposefully down the hall and into Molly's room. In one sweeping movement he picked up her chart and tossed it to John, who was following at his heels. As Sherlock approached Molly, he noted how small and delicate her arms were lying outside the covers. It struck him as odd that he had never noticed that fact before.

"I owe her," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" John asked, absorbed in the notations on the chart. He flipped through the most recent lab results. "Some numbers are better than yesterday's. Others aren't what they should be."

"She will get better." The forceful statement held the ring of a question.

Seeing the concern written on his friend's face, John replied reassuringly, "Yes."

Sherlock studied Molly's serene features. "When I needed her help, she did not hesitate. I found her willingness puzzling," he mused.

"You're kidding, right?" John asked incredulously, folding his arms across his chest. He was sure that even William, Sherlock's "official" cabbie, knew by now how keen Molly was on Sherlock. "Did you ever figure it out?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you ever figured out why she was willing to help you." When Sherlock still didn't answer, John added, "She did it for the same reason you saved me. She cares."

"Leave it alone," Sherlock said warningly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his long, dark coat.

"Wait a minute!" John gasped as realization dawned on him. "You did figure it out!"

"Stop," Sherlock growled.

John let out a bark of laughter. "I can't believe it. You finally noticed her feelings."

"Will you shut up?" Sherlock exclaimed, causing Molly to stir. Concerned, both men peered forward. Molly frowned and moved her legs slightly, then became peaceful again.

Sherlock lowered his voice and gestured toward her. "Look at what you did."

John wasn't a consulting detective, but that didn't mean he wasn't an observant man, especially when it came to the subtleties of fragile human emotions. The mask Sherlock wore today couldn't conceal from his best friend the strained note in his voice or the apprehensive look in his eyes. But what gripped John's attention was the way Sherlock clutched Molly's soiled handkerchief.

John's mouth fell open. "Oh my God . . . you care for her, don't you?"

Sherlock's expression became a study in consternation and vulnerability. Realizing how uncomfortable this new "area" had to be for him, John quickly looked back at the chart. He scanned the pages until a date in Molly's admittance information caught his eye. He was glad to have a reason to change the subject. "Did you know her birthday is in two days?"

"Why would I know that?" Sherlock resumed his normal stance.

"It would be nice if you got her a card."

John didn't have to see Sherlock's face to know he was rolling his eyes. "I hardly see why an overpriced piece of paper with a useless sentiment on it is necessary to commemorate Molly's birth."

"Flowers then? Or a gift? You should get her a gift," John persisted, putting the chart back in its proper place.

Sherlock gave the suggestion some thought as he absently fingered the folds in her blanket. "She does need a new charging cord for her laptop."

"That has to be the worst idea ever," John said. "No woman in her right mind would want that for her birthday."

Sherlock looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "Why?"

As brilliant as Sherlock was, his lack of awareness when it came to social interactions and feelings still could stop the doctor in his tracks. John thought for a second about how he should explain it.

"It's more important that the present be meaningful. To her. Give it some thought. Give _her_ some thought," John emphasized. "Birthdays are a nice time to let someone know what she means to you, yeah?"

Sherlock scowled but didn't argue.

~s~s~s~s~

Molly's eyes slowly opened. They revealed neither fear nor relief—just a grim acceptance that she had no control over her surroundings. She appreciated the light flooding the room and noticed the softness of the bed, but she could make no sense of it. She had been in that dark closet just a minute ago.

Molly turned her head to see Sherlock standing nearby, watching her. She frowned, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. Like someone in a dream, she slowly reached out for him.

"Hello," he said, taking her hand and settling it back onto the bed.

"Where am I?" Restless, Molly reached up to pull off her oxygen mask.

"St. Bart's."

It took a few seconds for her to recognize the name. "Hospital?"

"Yes. You were kidnapped. Do you remember?"

Eventually she nodded.

"Moran is in jail," Sherlock continued. "Parker, his accomplice, is dead. You were involved in a car accident, but you are safe now."

Molly began to cry, causing a stabbing pain to shoot through her chest. Another jolt felt like an electric current setting fire to her ribs. She moaned involuntarily.

"You are upset and in pain," Sherlock observed. "I will ring the nurse."

"Thanks," she rasped, biting her lower lip. "Feel pretty rough."

Within a minute, a fresh-faced young nurse ( _just out of school_ Sherlock observed) came in and injected medication into Molly's central line.

"This will help," the girl said brightly. She placed the oxygen mask back over Molly's mouth and nose and checked the IV bags before leaving.

"Tomorrow is your birthday," Sherlock said.

Molly mumbled as a burst of coolness flowed through her.

"You will be much better tomorrow," Sherlock was saying as sleep began to take hold of her again. She whimpered in response, a sad, lonely sound.

Something twisted inside Sherlock as he considered how being trapped in the dark for all those hours must have terrified Molly.

_Give_ her _some thought._

Sherlock let John's words echo in his mind. Then he left the room.

~s~s~s~s~

As usual, Sherlock was correct. Molly woke up more often after that point feeling a little better and staying awake a little longer. Each time she would quickly scan the room for Sherlock, but he was never there. Disappointed, she reproached herself for being foolish. Why would Sherlock spend his time hanging around her hospital room?

Dr. Lewis told Molly she was pleased with her progress and described her injuries in detail. Molly shuddered as she learned more about the accident from Lestrade, who came by to check on her and get her statement. Later on John and Sarah peeked in but didn't stay long. But still no Sherlock.

The next day Molly was more clearheaded and able to keep food down, which helped her feel stronger and tolerate the pain better. She was surprised by how much rest her body still needed because after her breakfast tray was removed, she fell back asleep.

The next time she awoke, Sherlock was sitting by her bed. He wore a well-tailored dark suit and a light blue button-up. "Do you need pain killers?" he immediately asked.

"No," she replied, bleary eyed.

"What do you need?" he asked. The pair grinned at one another, both remembering how three years ago she had asked him that exact question.

"A sip of water?" Molly shifted painfully to find a more comfortable position.

Sherlock poured a glass and held the straw to her mouth so she could take a few swallows.

"I have so many questions," she began.

"You were held at Andrew Parker's former nightclub, The Hot Spot," he informed her. "Parker owed gambling debts to Moran, who forced him into his service. Parker's girlfriend has been arrested for being an accomplice in your kidnapping."

"What was that strange room I was in?"

"A vocal recording booth. Parker had converted his offices into a studio for his girlfriend."

"How ... how did you find me?"

Sherlock shot Molly a withering look. "I investigated and deduced."

Molly coughed. "Well, I am grateful I'm around to see another birthday."

"Ah, yes, birthday." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and unceremoniously handed her a small, unadorned white box. Molly was at a loss for words as she opened it and lifted out a delicate silver charm bracelet.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, her doe eyes wide in surprise.

He watched as she carefully examined each charm.

"A book!" she squealed in delight. "You know how much I love books. And look! A kitten!"

"They are on your blog," he said matter-of-factly.

Molly pushed a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear as warmth filled her very core. Sherlock Holmes had remembered her birthday. She turned the bracelet to look at the charms on the other side.

"Is this a microscope?" she asked in amazement. "Where on earth did you find it?"

"The Internet. Quite simple, actually."

"But what's this one for?" Molly fingered a tiny silver star.

"Polaris, the brightest star in Ursa Minor."

"Oh?" She looked perplexed.

"It also is known as the Pole Star. Sailors believed it was a fixed point in the sky they could base their navigation on."

"Like in Sonnet 116? 'It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.'" She smiled self-consciously. "It's my favorite."

Sherlock nodded. "When a sailor went to sea, he looked at Polaris and knew it would always lead him home. It anchored him. He felt ... less lonely." He watched her closely. "Do you understand?"

"The star was an anchor," she repeated as the silver charm spun lazily. She grimaced apologetically. "Sorry, I must still be a bit fuzzy. I'm not getting it."

Scrubbing his hand over his face, Sherlock leaned forward and for a moment looked unsure of what to say next.

"No matter what dangers the sailor faced or how many years he was gone, he knew he could count on his star. It was his true north. That is why this star needs to be on your bracelet." His glacial blue eyes softened as they locked with hers. " It is part of who you are. To me."

As the meaning behind his words dawned on her, Molly's pale cheeks took on a rosy hue. With tears threatening to brim over, she tentatively extended her arm. Sherlock took the bracelet from her and opened the clasp. As he deftly placed it on her, his tapered fingertips brushed against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I would not recommend wearing it while performing autopsies," he cautioned her.

Molly shook her head. "I don't wear jewelry when ... oh! You're teasing, aren't you?"

He smiled. "Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper."

"Are ... are you back then?" she asked hopefully. "Is everything safe for you to return?"

Sherlock stood to his full height and nodded curtly.

"I have finally come home."


End file.
